In the last few days, my child – who is largely in charge of the music in our home – has been choosing Christmas albums from the 1960s. He sits in front of the record player – the one bought at a church rummage sale; also from the 60s – and listens so closely that he has been able to recite the words to me.
Suddenly, it is the holidays.
But not really.
I spent the month of April swooning over the unfurling of pink blossoms on the ornamental Japanese Cherry tree in our backyard. It, too, is from the same era as the record player, as the record; like both, it fills our home with joy. I think of the woman who planted it, the owner who came before us, who also planted the towering monkey puzzle tree, the rhododendrons and hydrangeas. Her name was Jane; in our yard, she left us such treasure. I think of her children, watching these pink blooms explode; I think of my child, who will remember them too.
Last week, we threw our tree a party. I made a pot of soup, to which I added more beans, more broth, more seasonings when I needed to stretch it. Friends brought chips and dips. I pulled the drinks I had in the fridge and set them on the backyard table: some sparkling water, a lone Diet Coke, mismatched beers. We talked and laughed, my child most of all, and I felt an abundance surrounding me that I do not take for granted.
Inside this month, we hummed carols; outside, we languished in rose-colored petals. Everywhere, we found delight.
The Wandering Introvert 