We started decorating for Christmas yesterday. So far, there’s a tree on our back deck, some lights along the front stairs, a wreath on the door, and two short, lighted topiaries on either side of our door.
This makes me miss our old house in Mississippi more than ever. During Christmas, the bushes bristled with white and crimson pinpoints of light. Every window featured lighted candles. Santa stood in one window, gesturing. The Christmas village suffered from urban sprawl. Around every corner waited a Christmas surprise: stuffed animals, music, treats.
This house, sterile by comparison, needs lots of work … and even then, won’t compare. I’m surprised to find that I’m homesick — not for a place, but for a specific time in a specific place.
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