It's empty.
My schedule is.
There are no piano students coming at 9am to to break the Saturday morning silence and wake my sleeping sons with their Frere Jaques and other Lost-at-middle-C beginner pieces.
The trash truck rumbles past the house, stopping to collect the piles of Christmas box debris and wrapping. The mail truck motors by stopping to pick up the late cards I send out. Several still wait on my desk needing stamps.
It's a slow morning of left over Betty Crocker Jolly Breakfast ring from Christmas breakfast.
Month old chores try to elbow their way into the day's calendar. Cleaning the garage, re-papering the kitchen shelves. Cleaning out old clothes in closets. The bathroom never got a wash down this week.
But I resist them and determine that we will play today. Though the skies are grey, it's warm out. Perhaps a walk in the preserve to sight tropical winter birds. Or a Home Depot run to return an unused tool.
I could read my eldest son's master's thesis he had bound and gave us for Christmas. It's on phenomenology. The philosophy of communication; the function of language; exchange of ideas between the subjector, the subject and the interpreter. Heady stuff for someone who only completed her bachelor's in music.
The pounds of gifted candy will be surrendered to when the afternoon chocolate craving comes.
Not sure what to do. Except we have to fog, cause our lazy dinner dish habits caught up with us and a little colony of dreaded detestable roaches have populated a corner of my kitchen. So we drop the insect bomb at noon and go out to play.
Or head with the masses to the mall to exchange Christmas gifts that didn't fit.
Saturday night church at 6.
That's it.
That's it for the day.
This blank slate, no agenda, Post-Christmas day.
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