My intentions were good; perhaps even noble. For me, anyway.
This post was supposed to be about Wubby’s first adventure into the big city: the train into Grand Central, the subway entertainment, the busy streets on the west side, the intimate nature of the Frick Gallery, dinner in Grand Central complete with white linen tablecloths, my fascination with wine served in delicate glass pitchers….
But the colors changed.
Five days after we returned home, I was traveling again, this time to help a friend complete a task she should not have even considered doing, but was determined to complete, with or without help. And she needed help. It started out innocently enough. The golds and oranges and reds of Northern Virginia and Pennsylvania quickly changed to angry reds, dusky grays, oppressive blues and purples.
Fading to black.
I’m home now, a little worse for wear. Exhausted. Confused. Questioning my judgment, maybe even my sanity.
The colors of home are varied and comforting: the vibrant red of the roses Hubby had waiting for me; the hazel of my daughter’s eyes as she focused on the three-foot jump ahead of her as she urged her horse over it; the rainbow of colors and emotions that are Wubby; the black and white of Bella the kitten, who brings me socks and begs to play fetch; the pinks and grays of the socks I’m knitting.
The autumn colors here in the NC Piedmont haven’t quite peaked, and the rain is coming, determined to bring the leaves down.
Sigh.
