Sam used to ask that question with every Christmas present I wrapped. It is easy to lose sight of the real meaning to the madness we call the Holidays.
Tomorrow is Sam’s birthday. He would have turned 60 years old. Even as a young man, he had an old soul. Liked to play Scrooge but underneath he was a Secret Santa. His mother told me he always expected the tree to go up by his birthday as a boy.
My Fraser Fir Tannenbaum is up, lit, and decorated. A cinnamon candle burns brightly. Snow blankets the ground outside, while the fireplace keeps it cozy indoors. Wrapping paper, ribbons, tape, bows, and gifts lay upon the table. Bing Crosby’s voice fills the room with holiday tunes. The dogs lie quietly upon the hearth.
So why do my eyes fill with tears? Why must I hold my head in my hands? Why isn’t this enough?
Jillybooks 