A little treat for the snow. You wouldn’t believe the bad rep it gets. Maybe you would. But…’tis the season for forgiveness?
A subtle difference is in the sky,
A light to dream or softly whisper by—
As if, with Heaven’s quiet grace endowed,
A candle flame were whisk’d within each cloud,
And showing faintly through the grey-cast veil
That makes some shining Ceremony pale
Concealing kindled starlight from our eyes
Lest we perceive what angels realize;
Oh still that thrill of eager wonder bright
We feel for this white magic at mid-night.
Let it not be said that I did not enjoy Gabrielle Zevin’s The Storied Life of A.J. Fikry. I did enjoy it. In fact, I only write reviews if I hate or love a book, and I very much hated and loved The Storied Life of A.J. Fikry.
It’s one of those days. A phone call (or none). A letter. A cloud over the tree. Wallie the Imp and I are not our usual cheerful selves. And as usual, when no spoken word can work out the knots in a melancholy mood, the written word sometimes comes through just right. It’s time for contemplation, an apocalypse, a woman not of this world and a man who very much is. It’s time for a little low music.