Location: St. Vincent & Grenadines

You were driving home in the dark on one glass-slippered heel, window sliced open and bathing in the snowliquor of the night air. We heard you singing, and couldn't bear to wake you.

26 December 2006

One more thin gypsy thief.

The year is coming to a close, winter break more than half over and holidays mostly gone, while the little patch of dirt where I make my home goes spinning helically around the axes of the planet and the sun, and angles slowly toward the light. You wouldn't know it on a day like today. Straight rain; nothing but big bellyaching clouds as far as the sky shows. Crazy drivers tailgating me with no lights on.

Holidays mostly gone. New Year's Eve isn't much of anything I do, really, and considerably less so now that I've got a littlun. Reckon I'll stay home and, if I'm lucky and she stays awake, kiss my lovely wife at midnight.

My gradually decreasing interest in holiday foofaraw, a well-established trend, has been counteracted this year by the enthusiasm of my lovely daughter. There's a big-ass difference between one-and-a-half and two-and-a-half; she's so much more in the world now, asking questions and rehearsing answers wherever she goes, blooming with emotion and imagination. So my grinchy distaste for the obligations of the season -- like taking time to wade through masses of consumers in search of gifts that aren't arbitrary or useless -- pales in comparison to the joy I feel watching Genevieve smile when she opens another advent calendar door. "It's a star, Mama! It's a chocolate star!"

A chocolate star, a set of watercolor paints, a doll, a rocking chair for her. For me, books and guitar picks and the new three-disc Tom Waits album, which I haven't listened to yet, which has my ears salivating madly, which is bound to be a holiday all its own.

Love to you and yours from me and mine. Peace out. See you next year.


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