He sees no reflection as he stares out the window tonight. Only her. A big red bow atop cascading blonde curls. He doesn't feel the cool night air, only the warmth from the hearth and her toothless grin. She is six, and when she says, "Merry Christmas, Daddy," he feels a joy so deep it hurts. It's the most beautiful kind of pain...the kind that comes from the heart reaching what was thought to be its capacity. She is six, not fifty-eight. She doesn't live five hundered miles away, but in the bedroom down the hall. He doesn't hear, "leave a message and I'll get back to you." Instead, her silly giggles fill the air. He smiles, his head resting against the pillow. Tonight he's not in room 29. Tonight, she is six, and for a little while, he is home.
                                                    
                                                         a little snow
                                                         left on the windowsill-
                                                         silent night
                                                                     
                                                                  ***

I've been absent for a little while. I'm happy to report that we had a wonderful Christmas, and that experiencing this holiday as a mother is a gift in and of itself. I have some time off, and my daughter and I plan to visit a local nursing home next week. I did this last year with a group of my students. So many elderly people don't have visitors this time of year and it has always weighed heavily on my heart. Let's not forget those who don't have a way to get out and enjoy the season. Let's bring the spirit of the season to them where they are. A belated Merry Christmas to you all and a happy 2013. May your new year be filled with blessings and opportunities to BE a blessing to someone else.
Love,
Kristin