Tomorrow the Christmas tree will come down, but today, it still stands, nine feet tall, in the new center of our familiar home.
Tomorrow the decorations—the lights, bobbles, stockings, and wall hangings—will be boxed back up until next year, but today, they add a contrast of color to the of-this-and-other-worldly colors of this space.
Tomorrow he will go back to work, and in a few days, so will I. A few after that, and she’ll be back to school. But today, we sit together around the too-small table and laugh over a later-than-most, but earlier-than-usual messy meal of spaghetti and Sunrise.
Tomorrow we will trek to the city, but today, the car’s odometer sits frozen in time, as if this day—lived off the books—simply doesn’t exist in its record of miles.
Tomorrow we may catch a movie or go ice-skating, play with the cousins, and pass out New Year’s hugs. Today, the ritual of Sunday-morning breakfast—even though it is a Monday—and the weekend feel of pillows propped behind me, paying bills, reading pages, and pacing back and forth to the washing machine creates a symphony of movement I am reluctant to leave behind just yet.
Tomorrow will change the sunny to snow. Today, the wind and the warmth of these walls keeps us from the walk we may have taken, the ball we would have thrown, the shine we would have soaked in.
Tomorrow we will venture out. Today we venture in. Finding our peace, our quiet, our vision and its revision. Or maybe just a piece of it. A piece big enough for any day. And this is today.
Want to know the truth? This is today, not at all fictitious. But, as often does after a good night’s sleep, the truth comes to light. Yes, today’s peace can become yesterday’s truth.