Downtown Portland, Christmas Eve night, by the harbor in the moonlight — the air brisk, not cutting, but with a happy chill urging one into the nearest warm door. Downtown Portland, Christmas morning, in a street corner coffee shop selling bagels and cookies and pie — snow begins to fall outside big bay windows, and papers cease to rustle and laptop keypads cease to tap; wonder steals into urban hearts far away from hearth and home.
Now I sit inside my little apartment, tucked into soft, soft blankets with a purring cat on my lap and another at my side. Candles flicker atop my sweet little door side table, the one painted green and black that’s been assigned the duty of holding my keys and purse and umbrella. Snow still falls, though more gently than this morning, in a soft, soft flurry outside my windows. The neighbor across the courtyard has his window open to the chill; his black cat keeps tempting the ledge to lick melting snow from the sill. My babies could care less about the white wet so fascinating to me. Their interest in the day peaked at the extra treats given with breakfast; they are now content to wallow in warmth and mock their foolish feline counterpart for the snow melting on his fur.
I was worried a Christmas spent so far from home and family and known joys would be sad, but it’s not. It’s been filled with a quiet joy, but joy nontheless.
Merry Christmas to my family so far from me, my friends both here and away, and those kindered souls finding contentment known and new.
