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Coffee at home everyday!
Thank you for your precious time and energy ✨️ 💕 💖 💓 💗 💜 ✨️
https://fountain.fm/episode/t0j9rd0WIT76FkHN8o7N
nostr:nevent1qvzqqqpxquqzqtk434p2vxsv6qzudadf6vw2jkfwup34dfh6kav4v847zhy4r7zhhx62rh
Good morning ☀️ ☕️💜🤙🏻
The Silent Plaza on Christmas Day
(Inspired by Truman Capote, written by Morgen Hatton)
The plaza was empty. The lights strung along the storefronts hung limp in the cold morning air, their colors dulled by the thin gray light of Christmas Day. Snow had fallen through the night, covering the parking lot in a soft, uneven blanket. Where cars had been, there were only shadows and silence.
Yesterday, the place had been alive. People moved with purpose, carrying boxes, shouting to their children, digging for change at the registers. There had been noise. Footsteps, laughter, the clang of a cart against a curb. But now it was quiet. The work was done, and the people had gone.
The town that didn’t rush but kept moving anyway, like the river in spring when the ice breaks apart. It had its rhythms. It worked when it needed to. But on Christmas, it stopped. The town breathed in the stillness, letting the quiet settle like the snow.
At the edge of the plaza, near the shuttered hardware store, a wooden bench sat beneath an old lamppost. It was there for the weary, though no one ever used it. Not when the lot was full, not when the lights were bright. And now, in the emptiness, it stood alone, half-buried in snow, waiting for someone who wouldn’t come.
The stores were locked. The displays in the windows stood frozen in time: a mannequin in a red coat, a Christmas tree with fake presents, a SALE sign that no one would see. The plaza was a monument now, to all the rushing, the wanting, the needing of the days before. It stood silent in the morning light, a still life of what had been.
Beyond the plaza, in the houses along the hills, the people had gathered. They sat at their tables, drinking coffee, sharing stories. In the kitchens, the ovens were warm. In the living rooms, the trees glowed with soft, steady light. Children played on the floor with toys that still smelled of new plastic. And somewhere, in each house, someone looked out the window and saw the snow.
The town rested. The streets were empty. The sound of the world had paused, as if it, too, had gone inside to sit by a fire. There were no cars, no voices. Only the wind moving gently through the trees and the faint creak of an old flagpole in the plaza.
It felt like home. The kind of place where people knew the names of the streets, the taste of the coffee at the diner, the story of the star on Irving Cliff. The kind of place where the silence on Christmas wasn’t lonely—it was full. Full of the things that mattered.
The snow fell in lazy spirals, piling on the edges of the rooftops, filling the cracks in the pavement. It softened the hard lines of the town, made everything feel a little closer, a little warmer.
The plaza would wake again tomorrow. The doors would open, the lights would come on, and the people would return. The noise and the rush would fill the space again. But for now, it was just this. The snow, the silence, the knowing that in every house along the hills, there was someone who belonged.
The plaza was still. And in the stillness, there was peace.
Merry Christmas
To all a good night 💤🌙😴
My baby boy turns 4 today 💗 
❄️ 