It is mid-afternoon on Christmas Day and I am counting down the hours until Tod arrives home from work and we celebrate the holiday with dinner and gifts.
Dinner is in the oven. I suspect that roasted pork was a poor choice; sauerkraut isn’t the most festive of scents. Rather than sugarplums, I envision post-war Europe in my head. Grey days, grey clothes, grey moods. I ought to be scrubbing laundry or tending wailing children. I am wearing a headscarf today, as it happens.
But it matters not because I have managed to sing over a clave rhythm without messing up either the lyrics or the strumming. It’s taken me weeks to get it and now I can sing our Latin-y version of God Rest Ye Merry, Gentlemen. Tod will be surprised.
