I’m ready to pronounce the holidays officially over.
Drinking mint tea, listening to the light rain on the skylight, cozy on an otherwise damp and darkish morning, I have gone through the stack of late-arriving cards. The ones mailed on the 23rd, 24th, and even later. The ones that didn’t make our Christmas Eve opening and reading festival.
News of jobs lost and found. Pictures of handsome mothers and fathers with predictably, satisfyingly adorable children. Handwritten notes. Typed annual letters.
A happily complete holiday season. Over for another 11 1/2 months.
Humbug, I say.