It was the end of October when my husband and I came back from our honeymoon.
While we were away, Daylight Savings Time happened but we had forgotten.
We honeymooned in Mexico and had to get used to a different time zone anyway.
We got on the plane to come home and had a short layover in Dallas.

The short layover turned out to be longer since the clocks had been turned back.
I had kept my watch on Eastern Standard Time while we were away.
My husband had changed his watch to match the time zone we were in as we vacationed.
Neither of us even considered that the clocks changed while we were away.

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I am feeding the squirrels.
I don’t want to feed the squirrels, I want to feed the songbirds.
I am feeding the chipmunks.
I don’t want to feed the chipmunks, I want to feed the wild birds.

Each day, when I water my plants, I fill my bird feeder.
My side porch has a wooded area next to the original stone farm wall.
There are so many birds that come to dine on the wild birdseed I put out each day.
Living among the large stones are the chipmunks; sitting in the trees are the squirrels.

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I have to charge my laptop battery yet again.
That’s the way it is with technology.
It has a shelf life.
It has a certain amount of time before it loses power.

It is the same with my phone.
How I love to see the battery icon filled with green.
How I dread to see the battery icon filled with red especially when I am away from a power cord.
What was supposed to make our life easier, comes with its limitations.

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It is funny how something that you only read about can suddenly become so real.
I have seen pictures.
The pictures have always made me laugh.
I just never saw it for myself.

Until now.

It is a situation you will see after a snow storm.
It is staking a claim.
It is marking your territory.
I understand it in theory but living in the country I never saw it for myself.

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I have a confession.
I cried at the new Star Wars movie.
No one saw me.
I was sitting next to my husband and my five children were sitting behind us.

It was not an uncontrollable cry.
It was the kind of cry that happens one tear at a time.
One tear that stubbornly falls down your cheek.
No amount of wishing it away will make it disappear.

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Everyone was home for Christmas.
The time varied as to when each of my children came home.
Yet, for a good portion of the Christmas weekend it was as it used to be.
Sort of.

My five children are now five adults who live elsewhere, but come home for a time.
The large bedroom that used to be shared by my daughters, is now for our oldest son.
The room that used to be shared by my boys is now the room of my younger son.
My youngest daughter, who is in college, still has the same room she always had.

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The stools were almost too high for me to climb on.
I remember the red leather.
I remember the chrome around the edge.
I remembered how they swiveled.

It was a treat to go there with my mother.
Sometimes it was for lunch if I happened to get out of school early.
Sometimes it was for no reason at all.
That was the best time; the no reason times; the “just to be together” times.

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A robin was swinging.
Literally swinging.
Swinging on the tree swing hanging from a tree on our front lawn.
It landed there on purpose; it began swinging by accident.

I noticed the robin as my husband was leaving for work.
My husband was talking to me as he got into his car.
I looked out the garage window towards the tree swing.
The tree swing my youngest daughter wanted my husband to build for her.

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I heard a mouse in our family room.
The sound was coming from behind the wall.
The thought of a mouse in my wall is a bit disconcerting.
Maybe the mouse will make his way up to the attic.

It is getting cold outside.
It is the season of mice.
It is the season when the mice want to come in out of the cold.
Behind the wall, near the warm fireplace, on the way to the attic is not the best route.

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There we were, newly married.
Young, inexperienced, traveling to another country for our honeymoon.
Mexico City, Taxco, and Acapulco.
One week away before returning home to a small apartment in the place of Amish buggies.

I remember how strange it felt to sign my new name.
I remember how I twirled my rings, now two of them, around the finger of my left hand.
I remember how I loved to say, “My husband” every chance I got.
I remember thinking that there is another person to think about now.

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