Christmas time again.
It's... perfect. It's the best thing to wake up to. Family. Home. Love.
I feel like I'm taking life too slowly, tiny hobbled steps when I want the freedom to race forward, but I won't let myself. It's frustrating.
Cid is with me, every hour, of every day. Normally, neither of us would take to that. Though we're very close and enjoy one another's company, we're also the kind of person to enjoy our space and independence. We should be shying away from such constant contact. But right now, I need it, I eat his presence up like life-sustaining food, and he seems eager to give it. I suppose, in a way, it's true. Without him... things would have spiralled much earlier. I would not have this journal. I wouldn't be alive to keep it.
The twins, as rambunctious as they are, seem to bounce back and forth between us like magnets between poles. They'll run outside, and I'll follow, but I'll watch as they tackle Cid from my seat on the porchswing, and watch them roll and tumble and roughhouse happily in the tall grass; when they're all tuckered out, they come back inside, and it's me they flock to, piling themselves on me like puppies, their weight and warmth a comfort to me.
These are lazy days.
Life is good.
I am happy.