“Are you cold?” Mom asks as she shuffles from her bedroom to the coffee pot.
“Yes,” I reply.
I look like a badly fashioned Michelin woman with PMS. I take note of the thickly knit infinity scarf that is wrapped around my neck two times, bulging like the collar of an elizabethan circus clown. Below this is the fully lined winter blazer, its ruddy red at total odds with the plush coral color of the scarf. This over the top of the heavy fleecy vest and long sleeved cotton top I threw on to get him to the airport at 5:30 this morning.
No, I would not walk out the door like this. This I piled on as I sat reading at my dining room table, and texting anxiously as he made his slow crawl through security. I have not unpeeled myself, now two hours later, giving comedic relief to my sweet mother’s tired eyes.
Yes, I am cold. I cannot shake the chill. I ponder this as I unfold each dirty linen napkin into the bowl of the washing machine. I am always cold on the day he leaves, as though the furnace of thrill and enthusiasm has gone out of me, leaving behind the cool, stark responsibility of running a business and keeping a home.
It will take several hours to a couple of days for my inner thermostat to reset itself. Work will help, especially the excitement of planning a New Year’s Eve party in the tasting room. Time to get to it.