Cuddles with my dog, cuddles with my son, cuddles forced upon me from friends and loved ones. Pretty books I’ve never read, tatty books I’ve read three times before. An empty beach with moody skies and even moodier waves. Orange leaves covering the ground like a blanket and crunching under every foot. Tall trees and the smell of autumn. Christmas. Everything about it, but particularly watching Muppets Christmas Carol fifty times (minimum).
Eating out and take aways, even when we know we shouldn’t. Especially when we know we shouldn’t. Comfort shows under a cosy blanket. “Another cup of tea?” asked by my husband for the fifth time that day. Road trips with early 00’s bangers (that somehow always descends into singing Westlife very badly at my husband. Always with air grabs).
National Trusts, just the three of us. Adventures with the pup. Pizza, hot chocolate, onion rings and cheesy chips. Taking photos. Making films. Writing just for me. Drawing for everyone.
Those little moments of wholesome calm in the house we’ve made home, with the family we’ve created.
The original poem is a lot shorter than my version (quoted below), but it inspired me to think and take note of those little things I don’t always appreciate.
[I WON’T BE ABLE TO WRITE FROM THE GRAVE]
FANNY HOWEI won’t be able to write from the grave
so let me tell you what I love:
oil, vinegar, salt, lettuce, brown bread, butter,
cheese and wine, a windy day, a fireplace,
the children nearby, poems and songs,
a friend sleeping in my bed—
and the short northern nights.
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