With spices and hot. A smoking vat. Inviting.
Under the flakes of snow. From the open sky.
The window to the bedroom is wide open so that there is frosty creaky air in the room.
And in the courtyard there is the smell of a campfire from fruit branches.
And there are children around. Our wonderful children. And grandchildren.
There is no conquest of the peaks in this moment. Or ski proof of success. Diaries with victories. Clearances to the conscience, who and how much in this world.
There is joy that we are different gathered together at the hearth.
The closest people. The smell of Olivier, prunes and the ringing of stupid jokes. Simplicity and relaxation.
And the desire in the coming days is not to rush anywhere. Walk in the forest .
Sort the twigs with your hands and feet. Aimlessly. And breathe.
And warm socks as a gift. And thermal underwear that allows you not to think about the weather.
And cheeks flaming with laughter. And the desire to cook fish soup the next morning. And bake bread over the fire with bacon, which I don't seem to eat.
But now ... it's just that, it's the taste of childhood. And loot.
And dissolve the whole next day in wishes. Dreams and plans.
And climb the highest hill. To light another fire there. Already ritual. And again and again to remember those who kindle the sparks of life in us. And to admit, friend, that there are no random people in the circle now, everyone is welcome. And not otherwise.
And play a childish leapfrog.
And fall asleep, talking under the fireplace about how they met. How you were born. And next morning, ask for a bath with brooms.
Scream with delight and cry for the mercy of those who pour. And wrap yourself in blankets. And hold the hand of your loved ones.
And dare to let go of everything that has outlived or has grown. To find nothing new, more, different.
And just be together.
Together! On this day. These days. In each other's life. Want?