Frozen

Port Townsend, Washington. I don't know what day it is. They are all snowy, or slushy, or crusty. River, Lara and Megan are in the kitchen with a bottle of wine. The chicken is in the oven, well-seasoned and organized into nice rows in a 9X12 baking pan. We also having rice pilaf(two boxes) and sauteed broccoli. Dinner is big these days. At least 8 people and usually more. Pork chops, barbequed ribs, and lots of chicken.
Cold weather, for weeks. No school for the kids, no work for the adults. The christmas tree is sagging. The wood stove is gobbling up wood.
Christmas day.
We had our family obligations. The spiral cut ham, the thick hunks of cheese, the hot buttered rum. Our friend is dying of cancer, this little girl got the dollhouse of her dreams, my mother is slicing onions and knife slips, but it only nicks her fingernail.
After those obligations. We head home. Cases of mexican beer and a stack of records. ZZ Top, The Misfits, Lynyrd Skynyrd. I want dirty old rock. Seth is visiting from Oakland, Ryka took a Xanax, and Oceanna is over with her new boyfriend. Cracking beers, flipping records, shouting with the boys about how sweet! And then a stir in the kitchen, yelling, doors slam. Some old shit and some new shit, the girls are getting it sorted out. Doors slam again, it is sucking. The fun wanes. Everybody leaves, feeling ugly.
Christmas is over.
I wake up and do the dishes, sort the recycling, and listen to an old punk tape. Coffee, quiche, something delicious from the plate of cast-off Christmas cookies. I need a beach walk.