Tea Leaves

A year ago, there was no premonition that it would be
Bud's last Christmas, but clearly he was winding down.
You could see it on his face, hear it in his voice, that he was
gearing up for his greatest adventure, that he was tired of
all the foolishness of pain and chemo.
We didn't even have a hint, a twitch, some subtle nagging
feeling that we'd sell what was to be the one house that we kept, no ominous foreboding: Your live-in daughter will move out and then return like the swallows of Capistrano, only later in the year and with less fanfare.
We read no tea leaves forming clusters in the bottom of a cup
foretelling that some fairly new relationships would have such
staying power or that the family would have new babies in its midst,
"First Christmas" ornaments hung proudly on the trees.
We couldn't know a car would die and be replaced.
The temptation is to sit back, take stock of Christmas
Last through Christmas This and make a judgment call,
the negatives and positives checked off in neat straight lines
before we say goodbye to the year next week, singing
 Auld Lang Syne and sipping champagne and watching
"Sleepless in Seattle" one more time.
But. From another perspective:
It's been one year more of love and joy and glimpses into
what a peaceful life will look like, if I ever get the chance
to have it all the time, which makes up nicely for the hurts
and disappointments, unplanned changes, stinging words,
the snubs and let-downs, unexpected expenses, declines
and snarky Facebook posts. One more year of hope,
the heart of Christmas that was born within a manger long ago,
so powerful that if you listen hard enough, you can hear
the celebration song of angels that still echoes in the air.



(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013