Home for Christmas
A brisk afternoon drive from Sea-Tac airport had faded into dusk by the time I finally arrived Christmas eve. The old neighborhood was a festival of lights flickering from trees, both indoors and out, and from around windows and doors, and they icicled from eaves. It was as though I was suddenly transported back forty years. A Santa that appeared to have been rescued from a hard storm was propped high on the Jones' roof, leaning into the chimney; there was no sign of those eight reindeer I remember, so perhaps they were now too feeble to make their trip from the attic. As I approached the old homestead, nieces, nephews and little white candles greeted me, waving from each window. I was home.
home is a temple
where we can feast in peace;
each year we pray so
© MLee Dickens'son