Sleet: small balls of ice that fall from the sky. Typically occurring along with temperatures that numb fingers and chill bones.
I am sick today. When I finally stumbled into the living room this morning, wearing long underwear and a sweatshirt, still freezing, my son informed me that it has been raining ice from the sky since 7:00 AM.
I believe I went back to bed. The details are hazy.
There are so many things on my "Should Do" list.
In the movie "Bull Durham" an exhausted team of baseball players complained to Crash Davis wishing for a rain out.
Sleet works even better.
A bed covered in, well, covers beckons. I accept. What else is there to do? The Brady Bunch is playing quietly on TV.
A big pot of chicken and noodles waits in the fridge, prepared when I was in better health. That was yesterday.
Driving roads glazed with little balls of ice would be foolish. Why bother?
As I sit in my rocking chair, having added a pair of flannel pajama pants, socks and a knit toboggan, I reflect on the fire. I try to decide what to do next. Keep reflecting on the fire or crawl back under the chenille bedspread and two quilts. Maybe The Brady Bunch is still playing, I think it was a marathon.
If I feel better later, I might make a pecan pie. Nothin' else to do today. No "shoulds" today, just a day of rest.
Sleet never felt so good.