The acrid, cozy musk of yesterday’s fire still lingers in the air, wafting from the charred, white-brick fireplace. Even thicker than the smoky scent in the air is nostalgia. The kind that comes with evergreen trees and twinkly lights and glitter-frosted fluffy scarves and the slant of the winter sun cutting through cold windowpanes.
We’ve decorated the hearth with two miniature trees, the branches enchanted with pin-prick white lights; the mantle drips with glistening, snowy Poinsettias.
A make-shift desk has been propped in front of the fireplace, because I couldn’t stand not to make this my newest writing haunt.
The slant of the sun glances off the laptop screen, making me squint to make out what I’m typing. But I’m piled with at least two books that I take turns reading intermittently, and at least three notebooks that I pause to scrawl notes in. (Shame on me for ending on…
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