Thanksgiving is a hinge holiday. It's a cornerstone. Round the fourth Thursday in November, and you're in the homestretch to the end of the year.
My city pulled out its holiday wardrobe while I was gone for Thanksgiving. Carols sang through the airport, and as we drove home, the boys played their own frantic version of "I Spy With My Little Eye: Christmas Lights!"
I rode home in a state of numbness, in disbelief over the truth that Christmas is upon me. I wondered how much of my neighborhood would sparkle and twinkle. Robb would have turned our lights on days ago, and he would have 'scrooged' everyone who hadn't lit up yet. He would hate to see our home dark for the holidays, but I just can't bring myself to do anything about it.
"I imagine I can put a wreath on the door. This I can do," I thought to myself.
We drove up our street, and the boys shrieked with the ultimate 'I Spy.'
"Our house! There are lights on our house!"
Sure enough, white icicle lights laced the front of the house. The pillars of the porch are striped like a candy cane. Christmas came to our house, too.
I looked at my mom. "Who did this? What is this?"
Her face was soft, her eyes glistening. "Your Tuesdays. They came over with their husbands, and they hung your lights. They borrowed the lights Robb always hung on our house. They couldn't let you come home to a dark house."
It is perfect. Just enough.
I didn't even know I wanted any decorations.
I cried in my driveway.
Christmas is coming here too.