As I stood at the window a little after noon today, a tufted titmouse landed on the sill. We looked at each other for a moment before he warbled a sweet note and flew off, leaving behind only two small bird footprints in the snow that has been falling steadily for several hours. 

I’ve been thinking about friends and family. Certain lyrics — “…we all will be together, if the fates allow” — resonate. I miss my distant family deeply. More than once this year, I have had to argue myself out of going to events that I wanted to attend with a longing that nineteenth century writers expressed so well because they knew what we’ve forgotten, that sometimes you cannot be where you want more than anything to be.  

Although we are not religious, we decorate a tree every Christmas. Many of the ornaments are pictures of family or are handmade, like the pictured snowflake from my mother-in-law. We bought this year’s tree from Gene, a veteran who sells fresh cut trees in a small parking lot behind a gas station in the East Liberty neighborhood. 

It’s as seedy as it sounds and Gene may be the nicest man you’ll ever meet. In his 70s, he’s tall with the ramrod spine of a man who spent some serious time in uniform and he barks orders like he’s still wearing the insignia of a leader. My kids aren’t used to authority figures and they were delighted by his “you do this” and “you carry that” teasing demands. Perhaps we would not have made particularly good soldiers but we jumped to obey his commands as though we were. We talked about him the entire ride home and agreed that, if the fates allow, we’ll buy from him again next year. 

If the fates allow … 

A week before the zoo was shuttered by the new closure rules, we were blessed to make our annual wreaths at their fundraiser. They changed the structure this year, reducing attendance to 3 masked families at a time and using their auditorium to ensure that we had a lot of social distancing. The four of us shared a big round table, laughing and teasing each other while we decorated our wreaths.

I took lots of pictures of my three blessings as they leaned into each other and discussed their creations. Then, we squealed (okay, Haley and I squealed) over the prehensile-tailed porcupine named Rianna who was happy to eat her dried mango and pose for pictures (per the handler, don’t touch her tail unless you want to spend the rest of your day pulling quills from your torso). 

Ian’s wreath is a treatise on the failures of capitalism in a pandemic. It’s not outdoor-friendly so we’re using it as a table wreath to maintain its quality. Also, it can’t hang because it’s very heavy!

Might have a poem to share before year-end. It depends a lot on my brain which is a dangerous thing to rely on these days.

Wear a mask. Stay safe. Don’t let your guard down; we still have months to go before the vaccine is widely distributed. 

Wishing you all the best.