How many hours did I lie on the long couch in Pat Read’s home on Christmas night, turning over in my mind the riddle of the bubbling lights on the Christmas tree, their little columns of glass and red liquid poking up here and there among the green boughs, singing with tiny circles of air which rose again and again from nowhere, an infinite procession as hypnotic as the reflections of taillights and headlights rolling rhythmically across the cold backseat windows as we rode in the dark of Christmas Eve, mile after mile, until the slippery red and white beads of light finally chased my thoughts away, and I slept wedged between the hard door handle and my sister’s shoulder, awakening at last to stumble drowsily from the snowy driveway into Aunt Patty’s bright kitchen, in Christmastime, Indiana, where all these faces waited just for me.
Aunt Patty is smiling at this, Brenna – such a beautiful remembrance of times past, to quote M. Proust. Just beautiful. Thanks, Love.
And we were indeed waiting, breathless with anticipation, excited, not wanting to sleep until our much loved little cousins arrived for cuddling and cuteness, along with our larger-than-life Aunty Barb and Uncle Marv who brought a kind of exotic merriment to Christmastime. As I read this I can still hear the laughter, smell Marv’s pipe and see my sleepy-eyed twins coming into waiting hugs. These are the memories of true family. Love Love Love
tearing up reading your notes, darlings. thank you. love love love yourselves.
Such cherished memories, such strong love. It’s great to have “what is beautiful” back in my mail box! I too am tearing up. Love you all so much!