Robert (gurdonark) wrote,
Robert
gurdonark

central heat

"What was any art but a mould in which to imprison for a moment the shining elusive element which is life itself - life hurrying past us and running away, too strong to stop, too sweet to lose".
Willa Cather

After virtuous weeks living in quilts, we turned the heat on last night. We live in what we call a "good winter house", the kind of house which warms into a crackling perfection. Creature comforts are curious things. They visit, like angels in sitcoms, almost unawares. I remember a day after Christmas, a few years ago, when a snowfall sat on the ground during a twenty degree day. I went to a local remote park, and stood by a cold, moon-shimmered pond. No wind blew. My jacket warmed my torso, as the spaces around scarf and cap chilled. I never felt so warm.
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