My Little Christmas House

I pulled out my Christmas decorations this evening and festooned my tiny apartment as best as I could. I almost gave up before I got started because going through the boxes of decorations breaks my heart a little every year. Every ornament, candle-holder, or festive knick-knack just brings back memories of where they dangled, sat, or hung in my little Atlanta house. And it makes me a bit sad. A lot sad. All right, all right, tear-shedding sad.

Yes, I sold the house at the right moment, right before the housing market went over the cliff.  I mean, there was no way I could've kept it and lived in New York. We tried renting it out, but that was more trouble and cost than it was worth. So, yeah, it had to go when I left town.

But knowing all of that doesn't help as I pull objects from Christmas Past out of their boxes. It's when I feel the loss of that house most keenly. I loved decorating it - the tree, the mantle, the dining room buffet, the front door. But now, I don't have any of those things. No tree, no mantle, no dining room, and just an apartment door.

So most of the decorations stay in their boxes. Waiting for another little house, though I don't think there'll ever be another little house for me. And I wonder if the angels and Santas and glass baubles and bells will ever come out in full force again. That's what makes me sad.  So I have my little Christmas cry, give the dear objects a blessing, and put most of them away for yet another year.

And then I have to put away thoughts of my little Christmas house. It was, after all, just a house, right? Except it wasn't. It was home. And now it's not.