Though I’m not religious, by any stretch of the imagination, I hold Christmas very close to my heart. I Love the lights, I Love the songs, I Love the weather. I Love the scurrying and even some of the ads.
Twinkling decor – it reminds me of when we visited Boulder – and there were lights spreading out ahead of us up the mountain and into the sky. It’s like the whole world is a velvet painting.
I am also not very family oriented – but tonight I really enjoyed the gathering. The ritual has never been quite the same once my Grandmother died, but it seems like the routine has settled down a bit, and there was a semblance of normalcy to the dinner and the tree and my Grandfather sitting down and handing out the presents to the kids.
back the way it was supposed to be.
The drive there, though, was frightening. We passed four accidents on the way to Grandpa’s house, and on top of that… well, we were driving on the highway, and then the guy behind us flashes his high-beams and then suddenly turns left into oncoming traffic. We heard the crack of metal – it sounded like we’d driven over a hubcap (something I’d done the night before).
Only my brother thought of calling the police.
Sigh.
So, I was filled with the imagery of car accidents, and of limbs flailing, and of pulling my brother from gasoline sodden wrecks – and that was what was in my head as we pulled up to Grandpa’s.
And yet, despite the idiot’s on the road – I DO Love Christmas.
Actual Christmas Morning.
The wind is blowing stiff and cold outside over the stiffened grasses of Seabrook. I’m awakened by the sound of… brushing? Or something. My Dad’s moving back and forth between different rooms with a broom in his red and black checked jacket and baseball cap. A costume I always associated with firewood, somehow.
+/- the broom, anyhow. The broom, I associate with the cats.
The day’s full of sunshine and silence. There WERE children running around only seconds before, but thankfully, the neighbourhood has died back into silence. The kids, perhaps eaten by dogs or carted off to a grandparents’ house to be gift-wrapped and sold into slavery, are – one way or another – quiet.
It’s only 9am! What with the running and the giggling and the yelling?!
Anywho, unconsciousness and I haven’t been good acquaintances for years, so the intrusion of the (theoretically) pleasant sound of children playing (The sounds of children playing are only considered pleasant by those not near enough to make out the actual words – according to Terry Pratchett) is unwelcome. Even the cats were kind for Christmas, letting me sink into sweet slumber for about five hours.
Heather will be over in a couple of hours. We’ve only been apart for… 33 hours? I don’t even like THAT.