Afterglow

I am pretending not to care that the Christmas-flavored water bowl is still standing tall and festively dressed in my living room. The lights are still glowing. 

Twice a day I replenish the liquid meant to keep the tree’s needles from falling out prematurely, though I suspect the Frasier fur has ceased taking any nourishment of its own some time ago. I’m keeping it full because all the free-range quadrupeds in the house prefer it to the flat tap they have to endure the rest of the year. Who am I to end the party early?

The working plan is to have all its adornments disassembled and packed away before Valentine's Day. 

Take small joys where you find them. 

Life can be such a drag. Like having to drag in all the boxes from the garage, figuring out which ornaments (that may or may not have been lightly chewed by dogs) get to return to a very cold storage for another year.

It’s a tough decision, and one that I have put off — on at least one occasion — until St. Patrick’s Day.

I’m not sure how Marie Kondo would weigh in, but I feel that only keeping those things that bring joy leaves entirely too much room for disappointment.

You know ...like when the kids spill grape juice on the joy-filled rug. When you love every single object, each loss must be equally amplified. Aside from an extra lap with the broom, no one really cares when the dog chews up the recycling. 

And what about when that joyous thing could be literally defined as clutter?

Thus far the son’s third (or fifth) Santa Letter, written hastily and last-minutely on the back of a cash register tape, continues to make the cut.

It seems unlikely to ever face the revolving file as the missive has historically attained prime real estate space, front, and center since  it was first drafted.

I think it’s the tell-tale pink line meandering down the left side that makes the letter extra festive and rare.

Not that a decommission is impossible. The construction paper bat headband made for a preschool Halloween party seven years ago never saw the light of our LED Christmas spread this year. That was a notable first. However, the turkey visor made from the outlined hand of a kindergartner stayed in the clutch last year.

Well ... not that anyone besides myself noted the absence. 

Not even me, truth be told. It must have made its way into the box labeled optional. … the one that gets opened and closed in one fell swoop. The one that has last year's Christmas cards and gift tags and other various objects a non-depression-era person might typically toss.

The box doesn't really have a label. That would take more organization than I have the patience for. 

It's the same chore, year after year. Usually done in solitude when I am procrastinating some other obligation. Not that I don't enjoy the tiny lights that almost convincingly pretend to glow as if they were incandescent.