Every morning for the two or three weeks before and the week or two after Christmas, getting out of bed becomes something I actually look forward to, because I know that once I make it down the stairs on my creaky ankles and knees, I need only take three or four more steps before I can reach the switch that lights the miniature white bulbs on our Christmas tree. Just a flip of that switch and, voila! The room (which, for me, symbolizes the day that has just dawned) takes on a beautiful, warm glow that elicits feelings of love and goodwill toward men.
"Oh, Christmas Tree..." Kate's LRDC, December 2009
Alas. Now, two and a half weeks after the Most Wonderful Day of the Year, the tree is gone. It's been lying naked by the curb, bereft of its glorious lights, stripped of all of those beautiful, shiny ornaments, since last Saturday, when My Awesome Husband Greg decided it was becoming a fire hazzard. (True, I can still admire the ornaments as they adorn the coffee table...I'll probably leave them there until at least Valentine's Day. But without the greenery and lights, they don't hold quite the same charm.)
I guess you could say we're back to "normal" now. But I still like to pretend, as I head down those cold, dark stairs in the morning, that within seconds I'll be flipping a switch and lighting up a new day. Sigh.
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