The den was dark by four. My mood fell slightly after. Solstice is on the way. Soon, the light returns, and with it, the hope that is most palpable as a new calendar is hung. For now, we just do the next thing we know to do. In the space between daytime chores and kitchen floors, I rest. Candles are lit. Tree lights glow. Matt Nathanson’s song, Little Victories, is on repeat. The puppy is wedged between my right hip and the arm of the chair while the cat glares from the long sofa. I remember to breathe, between sips of spiced rum and egg nog. Breathe. Breathe.