My holiday spirit waxes and wanes, day to day, moment to moment — the tide comes in, then slips back out. I ride it like a floaty feather, its downy lightness swirling and twirling like a pirouetting ballerina. With expectation’s volume set to mute, my gaze settles on the horizon, on the sun’s millimeter-by-millimeter descent. I succumb to its heavy, slowed blink — relaxed, yet attending, like an off-duty toy soldier.
It’s wonder I slip into, the thickest, coziest socks in the closet. And as I float and sit and tend and triple-lutz twirl, I balance on the edge of what’s known and what’s not. Delusion or illusion fuse into the conclusion that another day is drawing to a close. The curtain call. The sun’s slip beneath the earth’s edge — as inevitable as the first breath we draw and the last.
I rest easy as one ball of fire rests, replaced by sprinkles of luminous glitter upon the dark. And there you are. With your wool-gloved hand, you take mine. A gentle kiss on the cheek, and we stroll into a lull. The show draws to a close.
Dub, dub, dub, dub, dub — that’s all, folks.
Love, JL
Going On 40 