Salvaged from a most beautiful bouquet of roses sent for Christmas from my far-away daughter. The old favourite carpet that still gets away with its threadbare patches glows in morning light. My parents’ cocktail shaker, the lid lost in one of many moves, remains as a handy vase.
What remains of Christmas? Memories of music? Of happy meals, the crackers snapping, the toasts, the food, familiar or new delights? What remains? The mystery in the night? The meetings with old friends? The church, decorated and solemn?
And how many behind us? How many to come?