‘twer the hours before and after

Came the night and kitchen utensils clacking. No ghostly presence, no wampyres lurking, just a woman clad in a long, white-sleeved sleep shirt stirring vegetables and meat into a sweet potato stew.

Morning brought the swift breaths of exercise, then a daughter’s cheerful hug and bright eyes. She arrived just as a husband finished step-ladder moves and motions, hanging bulbs of color – red and green and white and blue – the house in its dress for later, the work done before clouds opened wide.

Under steady downpours a drive – to grandmother’s house without horses or sleighs. In the door to aromas expected, yet as always welcome: the bird, the stuffing, rolls, beans, potatoes. Full plates, the tapping of sterling on china.

New friends met familiar family, and in the glow of growing fullness, stories began to flow.

This is the best part: a tale of horses galloping, another with trout, the time I remember first discovering I could upset Dad – when I was four and released all the minnows he’d bought for bait into the shimmering stream.

This is new: the lines on faces, the heads of hair nearly white, the deep, matured voices of grown children. But the laughter rings, a familiar song.

Dishes and utensils clattered in the sink. Down were taken the tables. Tired smiles and stares and it was time to drive home and see them off and wish them well. I wish to gather the moments like fallen leaves.

Press them close in a book of days, with chapters the night hours, glowing like headlights on the way through the pouring rain.