Last night’s annual tradition, cuddling together, though this year in front of the most Christmas-y scented tree(!), and reading Truman Capote’s A Christmas Memory. I read aloud until emotion overwhelms and Greg must finish the story. It never disappoints.
I started the cinnamon rolls last night, a fine use of time, if ever there was, the spicy-buttery scent that filled the house this morning almost as delicious as the taste on my tongue. Later, I will make a southern-leaning feast of ham, cranberries, apple coleslaw, and cornbread.
This is Christmas for us, being alone together, two almost-hermits. We have a wealth of friends and family, engaging, lively, thoughtful, who surround themselves with well-populated groups. I find my person so different and overwhelmed in these spaces. My comfort is to find quiet, alone in observation, or to focus on a single thread or voice.
On Christmas, it is Greg’s, my favorite, without pretense or demand, guilt or obligation. These fine days punctuated by dog sighs and licks. We listen to soul-stirring music. We wear pajamas all day and glide about like the oldest of dance partners, each anticipating the other’s movement and responding in kind – cooking, baking, conversing, cleaning.
This is the great privilege of being grown. Choosing, as much as we can, how life unfolds, filled with the joys of the finest people and places, sights and sounds. It is the best life I know.
Here’s hoping for the best life you know – today and in the year to come.
