Quiet

The slow dri p of the tap into the pile of washing up,

The crackling embers of the still red-hot fireplace,

The sticky, melted mess of candle wax coating the mantlepiece,

The memories of the night before preparing themselves for the morning after.

Wine is carelessly spilled on the new white rug, but who cares?

After all, its not Uncle Rob’s problem that I’ll have to scrub it out.

For hours.

It’ll leave a stain nonetheless, a memory of what happened last night. A reminder

Of the games, the jokes, the arguments.

I hate the performance, but I love the people, yes,

Even the raggedy dog that my gran sneaks spare pigs in blankets to,

Even the rude cousins who are as mysterious as their food is bland (very).

I hate it, just a bit, but

I look out the window and see the howling wind and the rain coming down like bullets

And I hold onto the blanket around my shoulders a little tighter,

I take in the warmth of the fireplace,

I think about the people I love sleeping – rather cramped – in the spare rooms,

And I leave the stain, the leftovers, the scattered wrapping paper for tomorrow

And I go back to bed.