Okay, I’m tired of clouds. Last night was beautiful with a bright moon and a clear sky. What happened after I went to sleep? The sky is now a dull grey. If it were a person, I’d think it boring. Nothing is moving, not even the smallest branch. Even a little wind would have added a bit of drama to the day. My plans too are boring. I’m going nowhere. I’m just going to catalog my Christmas presents so I’ll know what I have and what I need.

Last night I took my socks off and left them on the floor. This morning one had disappeared. Henry, I thought. Well, I found the other sock downstairs. I know it didn’t walk by itself. Some time during the night Henry brought it downstairs. I missed it all.

Henry now barks when a bell is rung on TV. I tried to explain that barking was unnecessary, but he was barking so loudly he didn’t hear me.

I have odd memories of events which happened when I was really little. They seem to have no context and stand singly. One memory has to do with a pond and a half submerged row boat. I remember water lilies and leeches and my Mother screaming. I can still see white Adirondack chairs standing by the water, and I have a hazy memory of my father’s aunt. I don’t remember my great-grandmother, on my father’s side, but I can still see the narrow wooden stairs in her house which connected one floor with another. I do remember my great-grandfather, on my mother’s side, who used to sit by the giant heater in my grandmother’s living room. He scared me, and I’d run by him as quickly as I could. I didn’t remember why I ran until my mother told me he once took my Easter basket away.

At 37 Washington Ave., the stairs had a landing. I remember playing there with my dolls. I was probably no older than five or six as we were still there when my sister, five years younger than I, was born. 16 Washington Ave. was where we moved shortly after that. I always think it funny that the houses are remembered by their numbers.

I have tons of memories of Christmas though most of them have jumbled together over the years. For some reason, though, I remember the ice skates. They were old ones, the kind that buckled to your shoes. When I first woke up, they weren’t under the tree. Later that day they were. When I asked my mother, she told me I must have missed them, but I knew I hadn’t.

This last memory stills make me laugh. I wore braces for years, including the ones where tiny elastics were stretched from my lower to my upper braces. I remember sitting behind my father in the car and talking when one elastic flew out of my mouth and hit him in the back of the neck. He swatted his neck like he’d been bitten by a wasp. I suppose I must have said something, but I don’t remember it. Maybe I just laughed.