December is nearing its end. We’ve celebrated its birthdays (three in my little family unit alone). Marked its anniversaries (14 years for Mike and I – which sounds long, I suppose. Only, how can it be that Mike and I have still lived far more years apart than together? 14 years? So short.).
We’ve wrapped up Christmas. And unwrapped Christmas.
We spent the 25th and 26th drowning in wrapping paper, stocking stuffers, and toys. Slowly wrapping and packaging were taken to the garbage. Even more slowly toys and treats made their way to individual piles (based on who they belonged to); slower still, they began to find homes: new crafts to the craft box in the kitchen cupboard, Calico Critters to the dollhouse already occupied by other Calico friends, Lego sets to the toy closet or individual rooms. Still several toys linger – waiting, expectantly, for some more permanent residence to be found.
The decorations that seemed like magic only a week ago have taken on an air of “clutter” -- suddenly seeming awkward and out-of-place – our Christmas tree like someone who showed up in a prom dress for a casual dinner. Yet, the spots where we’ve begun taking them down seem lonely and a bit forsaken.
I decided today that, despite it falling in with far too many events that require proper celebrating, I like that my birthday lands at the very end of the year. A new year of life for me. A new calendar year ahead. With so much ending . . . it makes for a very good place to begin.