That sound Murphy makes, air pushed out of her stomach and through her nose and her mouth, a happy and satisfied growl. Repetition.

A cold walk followed by a hot chocolate. Perhaps with a splash of Kahlua in it.

When my muscles ache, which is nearly always – I’m a computer geek –, a hot bath.

The smell of beeswax candles. I think I read that they were toxic. Who cares? Everything is toxic. Life is toxic.

Remembering someone’s name which was formerly slippery.

Watching, rather by accident, the blaze and glamour of an award show and the parade of fashion and money and celebrity; and then the satisfying pop of the TV turning off.

The sound of Billie Holiday, India Arie, Annie Lennox, Chet.

Cleaning. My hands in warm soapy water.

Moisturizer on my legs before bed.

Working late. Really late. Hurting myself working really late just so that I can sleep in with impunity. Also: getting up early just because you feel like it.

March. March is hopeful.

A Monday morning when you don’t really care that it’s Monday and you’ve got no particular place you need to be.

Finding the perfect snowdrift. Walking Murphy very early in the morning after a fresh snow before it has been trampled and tracked and violated by dozens of other dog-walkers.

Catching a snowflake on your tongue. And not being worried about getting caught.

Finally having something written for Snapped at 10 pm. Not so much soothing, I suppose. But still, a relief.

SS