Only the bland horizon here
I am in an unfamiliar house, but apparently, it is my own. A dripping shower in a strange place captures an odd amount of my attention. It is wet and grimey with mold. I stare intently and try to understand why I never knew it was here. It’s been wasting so much water. Someone must have turned it on at one time. Was it me? I concentrate. I must remember where I am so I can clean it. And turn it off. So much water down the drain.
I hear music, then chit-chat. The house dissolves and I pull myself through the dim, foggy area between dreams and wakeful alertness. I place myself back in recognizable territory. And I remember. I jump out of bed, pull the shade back, and then, disappointed, I sigh. They said it was coming. All of them. Each and every one. I never really expect their nightly promises to show true, but this time, I had hoped. The weather people had me anxious with anticipation.
Snow. It was supposed to snow. It didn’t. Not here. I know it must seem a strange contradiction for a warm weather enthusiast such as myself to complain about a lack of snowfall. And I shouldn’t complain because most of the time, living in this part of England, we have the best weather. And that is, by far, a great thing. But, I am disappointed. Snow is rare to me. So when it happens, it’s exciting. I was eager to see the land blanketed with white, soft flakes floating from the sky. But, all I see is dull, cold winter.
I climb back into bed and try to stay warm for just a little longer. It doesn’t look like there will be any snowmen, of any shape or size, today.