Yesterday, that girl decorated a four-foot artificial Christmas tree we placed on table in the living room. She hung her favorite glass ornaments from the branches, including one her daughter made for her during grade school. She also hung some of my ornaments, including two fragile eighty-year-old ornaments that once belonged to my grandmother.
She called out to me as she adjusted a glass icicle: “How long do you think we have? Twenty-five years?”
I knew exactly what she meant.
That girl was enjoying her time with the tree, fussing over precise decorative placement, likely recounting Christmastimes past. She had made a point to have me hold the ornament her daughter made before she hung that one. A wave of my own Christmastimes past washed over me as I held the ornament.
Our ornaments merged beautifully on the tree. Each of them caught white light from the light strings and issued forth colors in return. Christmas ornaments always look brand new. I think both of us feel excited about Christmas for the first time in many years. And we now have a dazzling granddaughter upon whom we can lavish gifts.
“Yes. Twenty-five years,” I responded.