Updated: Nov 16, 2021
Delight. Full-body hug-snuggles from my wooly-coated granddaughter on the evening of my fifty-fourth birthday.
Wonder. Cloudy November, but oh! the sunsets. Arm-in-arm we pause by a picture window, transfixed by the scarlet panorama.
Anticipation. Mom’s handwriting on a padded birthday envelope, and I know what’s inside. A pewter tree ornament for every year, give or take.
Family. Making a list for Christmas shopping, just us two, the weekend of our December anniversary. Thirty-two years; five sons; three married; and grands. Here, near, and far.
Laughter. Baby Nash is learning language and finding his voice. Brow furrowed over softest dimples, and oh that hair!
Blessing. A week of phone calls from sons wishing Mom a Happy Birthday, and holiday plans just around the corner.
Gratitude. The man I love kneeling just downwind from a swollen deer-carcass, changing my flat tire on our first day of snow.
Tradition. Grammy’s group-text invitation to her day of feasting. Turkey and stuffing and all the trimmings. Who can contribute a salad or pie?
New. Thanksgiving trip to New York City!
Nostalgia. The Story of Holly and Ivy, scoured each year from a public-school library, until, a teacher, I acquired my own. And someday I’ll read it with Maisy.
Seasons. Red oak leaves clinging to branches, and scattered on a snow-dusted ground.
Cherish. Velvety leather, birthday Bible, inscribed by my faithful husband.