I wake up this morning to fog and damp and a cold chill. No sunshine today, I can tell that much from the bathroom window’s view. Dreary is the word. Dismal, even. But I welcome it.

Dreary, dismal days are thinking days. Quiet and considerate, not flashy or sparkly like those sunshine days. Reflective, rather.

Dreary, dismal days are baking days. Pancakes for breakfast, grilled cheese for lunch kind of days. Math and science at the kitchen table, good books and blankets on the couch and tea in the afternoon kind of days. Mixing up nutmeg-y scented muffins to fill battered tins, and hamburger soup simmering on the stove. And the earthy perfume of dampness and dirt and the possibility of spring whenever the door opens.

These are the days of communion, of subdued camaraderie, of chats and the sharing of dreams and concerns.

I love myself a foggy day every now and then.

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