On this quiet morning after Christmas, the prettiest snow is falling outside my windows while my old-time radio plays Christmas symphony music. I wish you could see these snowflakes--lacey, soft and silent.
I am still in my nightgown and robe--Tom came home early this morning from having worked all night and we sat in our cozy little winter room and watched an episode of Lost--where Hawaii may as well be Mars, compared to our white, frozen yard right now-- on dvd.
But now he has gone to bed where he will dream all day and I am walking around our house idly picking up gift wrap and clearing the linen dinner napkins from the table and wiping away crumbs. I am remembering yesterday, Christmas afternoon, with our daughter and Carl and Tom and myself and smiling a lot because of those memories. I never mind washing dishes the day after any holiday--always they remind me of the kidding and warmth of the day before.
Yet this morning I'm also picturing crowds of people rushing in traffic and through store aisles, returning gifts, mobs and long lines and children whining to go back home to play with new toys. And I whisper thankful prayers because I'm in this quiet, candle-lit house taking my time straightening the red table runner and candles, and doing whatever else I wish. No one will come to the door today, no telemarketers will call--I can stay in my robe all day long if I wish.
Tom is not the only one dreaming today.
My favorite, most delicious, most high and holy day of the year? Always, it's the day after Christmas.
There's no other quiet like the one on this day. No other calm like this after the storms, public and private, which December can bring. And all day long, He, that Christmas child all grown up, will sit beside me or walk with me down the stairs when I go to the kitchen for coffee and another piece of pumpkin pie.
You see, today is my real Christmas and my Friend and I will have ourselves a merry little Christmas, indeed.
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