Fiction.

November 22, Hugo.

It has turned cold. For the past two days now the kids have given me a reprieve and gone on to nap at the same time, so I stop, I breathe, I read, and just sit and enjoy the moment. Sara gave me two old New Yorkers before she left for home; I'm going thru the summer fiction issue.
It is too cold to have the kids run around outside much and Dylan has become wilder, harder, and my nerves are tired and frayed. Each line of the magazine is like a drop of sweet water to my parched, clanking soul.