The silence is deafening. I forget how silent the presence of snow makes everything. My room is dark, lit only by the glow of the best early Christmas present ever: my own miniature pine tree, complete with gingerbread ornaments and off-white ribbon. I am covered over with a white down comforter and a fuzzy apple green blanket. I look across my covered feet to the floor to ceiling bookshelves lining the wall and a giant Georgia O'Keefe painting of my favorite flower. I smell like home. It smells like candles and pine and woodsmoke and snow. I wish I could bottle it and take it with me wherever I go. Instead I suffice for its memory when I'm not wherever it is.

The silence is my favorite part. It's been a long time since I've heard it and I can't wait to hear what He'll speak. I can't describe silence except to say that it sounds like what my room looks like, green and white, peaceful, and that it sounds like what my room smells like, pine and candles, belonging.

My actions shouldn't be governed by my circumstances, I believe that, I do. But, as the clock downstairs chimes midnight and I hear a horse whinny in the backyard and my body is still warding off the negative two temperatures chill, I can't help but think that it sure is nice to be home.