December, we meet again.

Braced for the cold, for the early dark, for the sudden onslaught of memory.

Seeking solace in tea, in soup, in books read under cosy blankets. Finding joy in twinkling lights, in delighted children, in the scents and flavours of the season.

Looking forward to pastelles and sorrel and parang.

Hope is the thing with feathers; grief too.

The night is darkening round me,
The wild winds coldly blow;
But a tyrant spell has bound me
And I cannot, cannot go.
The giant trees are bending
Their bare boughs weighed with snow.
And the storm is fast descending,
And yet I cannot go.
Clouds beyond clouds above me,
Wastes beyond wastes below;
But nothing drear can move me;
I will not, cannot go.
— Spellbound by Emily Brontë