Muddle

My voice sounds like large rocks were wrapped in leather then dropped onto damp ground. Dump thump dump, dump dump. Or as if I am speaking up from a sod basement lined with old glass jars containing colorless farm vegetables canned in half-gone, clouded fluid. A living ghost voice. What brought this self-conscious, creeping centrality forward was that I watched myself on video this week. Conclusion was that I sound as if speaking through a tunnel. I could probably call earthworms, or go out for hire if you need your attic haunted.

No wonder animals and babies love me, I moo. Swimming in the ocean will have no fear as my blue whale buddies flap alongside; we can exchange plankton recipes. Oh lord, what can I do? Suck helium? Tighten my vocal cords with a key? Truth be told, it has always been a torture. Kids and some adults made fun of my deep voice from grade school on (are you a boy or a girl?), you'd think I'd been out in the wide world long enough to get over it. Well sure, thought so until viewing the tape.

The lucky thing is that my memory is short, by tonight I imagine it will be forgotten. Right now the more interesting thing is the wham bam snowstorm happening outside, thick enough that the downtown buildings are blotted out from view. I am due to paint butterflies on the outside of a cabinet, which will be a fascinating counterpoint to the weather.

You know, yesterday the radio announcer made comment that it was 5 p.m., and still daylight outside. I looked up from the steering wheel and traffic, and noticed gratefully that yes, it was. How lovely that it goes round again. The plants on the windowsill lean towards the light so hungry, the tiny grey and white juncos that I feed out in the parking lot stay longer at the base of the crabapple tree where seed is tossed. Only January, with much more cold on the way but easier to bear in lighted hours.

I have milk and cat food, so if we get socked in there's plenty. The juncos were filling themselves up with thistle seed, and all flew up into branches except one, who remained in the snow and used wings to flutter a bit of a nook to sit in and uncover more seed. He ate like King Cole, not budging even when I slowly scooched out of the car and tossed another handful his way. The seed rained atop his head and all around; he looked as pleased and deserving as winner of the Irish grand prize.

Where do they go at night? Few pines are down here, there must be safety in the clusters of hedges lining the buildings. Even so, God bless them. I and the cats are inside with rugs and blankets, pillows and steam heat. Tonight we sleep well and warm, releasing cares of the day out into the realm of Nod with reasonable assurance that we are safe and without fear. Lucky, lucky us. Kai is on my knee and partially on the keyboard, eyes half closed. Her paws are feathered by mottled brown fur as she capitalizes letters unannounced by laying on the shift key. Min is yelling about a nest she is building while tearing newspaper to shreds. Tulip is curled on her pillow, Mr. Pickles is above us atop a cupboard, and Princess Snowbelle lays asleep on a braided seatcover. What a day, what a lovely day. And so it goes on.

Sleep well, sleep safe, sleep deep after doing a good deed for someone, even if that someone is yourself. See you soon.