Every year, we have a dinner party on Christmas Eve. I wear high heels and my antler hairband, McIrish wears his Grinch tie. It’s loud and crowded and bright, the food is abundant and delicious, the wine flows freely, and I make a spectacular dessert to show off a little bit. Our guests stay for hours and hours.
But my favorite moment of the night comes when everyone has gone. We live in the woods, as you might know, and it’s very quiet around here. I like to go outside and just look at the sky for a few minutes. Starry or cloudy, moonlit or not, I don’t mind.
I’m a believer, you see.
Santa always leaves my kids a letter. He talks about being in our house again, about our pets, the cookies, the kids themselves. And then, toward the end, he always mentions the call of the cold night sky, the stars, the wind, and I love to picture it—the thrill of flying through the dark on the most magical night of the year.
One Christmas Eve, not very long ago, the kids and McIrish and I were doing just that—looking skyward, enjoying the fresh, cold air and satisfaction of another slew of happy, well-fed guests. The quiet settled around us, and the lights of our house glowed.
And then, we saw it. In a streak of red, right over the trees—a shooting star.
Or something.
I mean, what are the odds?
A very Merry Christmas to you all, dear readers!
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