for the kids

It’s our first Christmas season in our new house. Slowly I’ve been collecting treasures: tinsel, pink glass ornaments, paper stars, twinkle lights. Half the time when I go to hang a garland or star, there’s already a nail in just the right spot. Is it common sense or is it serendipity? 

Sixty-three Christmases have already happened here. In the hallway I can see Wynn, Alan, Holly, and Kenny skidding in stocking feet to the living room, eyes bright with anticipation. When they hear I’ll be home for Christmas do they see big windows and wood paneling and the magic made here? I wonder if Jan baked a ham in the same oven from which I just pulled a loaf of bread, or if Ken hefted a tree onto his shoulder and carried it into the living room, leaving a trail of needles in his wake. Maybe there was a Christmas puppy one year with a red bow tied around its neck. Maybe it was the same puppy that now keeps watch over the backyard. Were the magpies as mesmerizing then as they are now? I assume there was a record player; I hope I’m not the first one lying on the floor listening to Nat King Cole. And when the grandkids started coming—imagine their glee to find stockings with their names!

Last night I got irritated stringing lights on the sappy, prickly branches; we’re getting a fake tree next year, I muttered. But after the struggle, an epiphany: this is not the first time that corner has borne such delight.