For a week now I've been thinking "the last days of a decade", which might explain why everything has a shine to it, like just-polished furniture, or like the mountaintops do as the sun sets on the last day of a year.
When I got home last night, I walked into our bedroom and stood for a long moment admiring the vintage green chair against the walls we painted purple several years ago, and the shadows and light the new table lamp threw against its linen shade. I changed clothes and went into the kitchen to prepare a late post-spin dinner, and the vision of Darby and the girls sitting together in the living room watching a movie caught my attention. Rose and Shiloh were on the couch, Darby on the chair, and the Ganesha statue on the fireplace mantel looked down upon these three people I care for, everything peaceful, good, and mine to love. this morning, after they'd all left for school, it was just me and the cat in the window with her ears silhouetted against the shade.
Nothing is melancholy, but it does feel like a journey is coming to an end. It's a nice ending, actually, because the only thing changing in any radical way is a number. It means very little - for now, all the big questions have been dealt with - but it feels good to close the door on 3 and peer curiously into 4. Sometimes a year feels too short, but looking at ten of them stacked behind me I cannot help but marvel at how much they held. It only piques my curiosity about this new stack of ten. It makes me wonder what I will see when I next stand (god willing) on the last days of a decade. Oh, yes, please, in a few days, light those candles. I have some wishes to cast.
But for now, I just want to stand here and marvel.