A kind of warm glow descends upon us from Christmas Eve until New Year’s Day. A nice blend of festivities and relaxation.
There is a lot of chocolate and champagne,
lots of warm crunchy bread and soft butter,
prosciutto and cantaloupe,
cookies drizzled in chocolate;
lots of Rosemary Clooney and Bing Crosby and Danny Kaye,
lots of paper snowflakes,
gingerbread houses and silver dragees and icings tinted green and red;
lots of suppers by candlelight,
Grandmother’s china and Cambridge glass,
polishing the good silver,
lots of doorbells and watching for the UPS truck;
lots of preheating the oven,
lots of driving around to see the lights,
children falling asleep on laps, way past their bedtimes,
the scent of fresh evergreen garlands and wreaths;
lots of looking the other way,
lots of not getting up, even when the sun’s in your eyes,
wrapping presents on the bed and hiding bags in the closet,
iPods set to Christmas playlist;
lots of big pots of steaming black tea,
new pajamas and books and things that need batteries,
trash baskets overflowing with wrapping paper and ribbon and bubble wrap,
cardboard boxes flattened and bent into submission;
lots of sitting on the sofa under piles of blankets,
lots of quietly laughing in the kitchen at something the kids said,
lots of “Go to sleep” yelled from the living room;
lots of Stephanie Edwards and Bob Eubanks,
running outside to see the Stealth bomber fly home over the mountains,
running back outside to watch the planes in formation zigzag over the Rose Bowl,
lots of infomercials and college football;
lots of boxes and tissue paper and newspaper,
lots of unstringing lights and unhooking ornaments,
lots of brown needles scattered across the floor,
furniture moved back into place,
finishing the last bottle of champagne,
falling into bed, too tired to read the last three chapters,
smiling into my pillow.