If we could have fit you all into our living room on the night of Christmas Eve, dear Readers, we would have done so. The room was all a dazzle.
An angel kept watchful guard as Handel's Messiah spun round on the record player. Our tree, sparse but lovingly decorated, kept vigil in the corner. J made a trip to Fan Tan Alley, to one of the oldest shops in Chinatown, and bought vintage streamers and accordian decorations ("These were made before you were even born," the shopkeeper said) and we strung them up while E was fast asleep. Then we sat, the only two Js of the world, and admired the sight. In the morning, at the decent hour of almost-eight, we came downstairs and delved into our stockings: first E, then dad, then mom. Our guests (and there should always be guests for Christmas morning, it's the best sleepover EVER) came down when their eyes were finally open, and we all exchanged gifts as the coffee brewed. Only you, dear Readers, could have made that morning more special; but as it stands in my memory, it was the best Christmas there's ever been.
What can we say of the rest of December? It came and it went, and with it came and went the heartache and recovery that accompany the lift of hope and the tumbling down of loss. We Three Rioux held together. Soon it was New Year's Eve and our doors were flung open for family and friends to eat and drink and share our merry making. As 2010 rung itself out and 2011 shook itself into being, we hugged and kissed and felt alive in each other's gleeful company. What better gift could there be than to have a roof over our heads and the people we love dancing under it? Happy new year, one and all, near and far, good'ns and bad'ns. You are loved, you are loved, you are loved.
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