For the Time Being

The last big breakfast for six. The kitchen sure got a workout these past few days. It looks it. Ditto the cook! Hey, when does the maid show up? Ha ha.

The family packed up and just left, the truck fully laden and on to their next adventures. What a good time we had. We miss them as soon as they leave, we always do. But after the holidays, there's that nice feeling too, when life settles back into our usual staid winter routine.

Reminding me again every year, of this after-Christmas poem, by W.H. Auden:

For the Time Being 

Well, so that is that. Now we must dismantle the tree,
Putting the decorations back in their cardboard boxes-
Some have gotten broken-
And carrying them up to the attic.
The holly and mistletoe must be taken down and burnt,
And the children got ready for school.
There are enough left-overs to do, warmed up, for the rest of the week,
Not that we have much appetite, having drunk such a lot,
Stayed up so late, and attempted-quite unsuccessfully-to love all of our relatives,
And in general
Grossly over-estimated our powers.
Once again, as in previous years,
We have seen the actual Vision and failed
To do more than entertain it as a agreeable
Possibility, once again we have sent Him away
Begging though to remain His disobedient servant,
The promising child who cannot keep his word for long.
The Christmas feast is already a fading memory,
And the mind begins to be vaguely aware
Of an unpleasant whiff of apprehension at the thought
Of Lent and Good Friday which cannot, after all now, be far off...
But for now the kitchen table exists because I scrub it.
It seems to have shrunk during the holidays.
The streets are much narrower than we remembered;
We had forgotten the office was as depressing as this.
For those who have seen the Child, however dimly,
However incredulously,
The Time Being is, in a sense, the most trying time of all.
For the innocent children who whispered so excitedly
Outside the locked door where they knew the presents to be,
Grew up when it opened...