Today, I look forward to sitting.
I haven’t done much of that lately. Instead of sitting, I have been walking the mall, hauling the tree, wrapping the gifts and setting the table.
Enough of that.
Today, if everything goes according to plan, there’ll be a window for sitting. It won’t be a large one, but it will be a window nonetheless.
The window will be bookended by anything but sitting.
At the front end, there will be the make-ahead potatoes to get out of the way. There will be cinnamon buns to be made. There will be cranberry sauce to whip together. There will be gifts to be placed beneath the tree.
I can do none of those things while sitting.
At the back end, there’ll be tomorrow. There’ll be stockings to open, presents to unwrap, turkey to be placed in the oven, gravy to be made. Sure, I can open the stockings while sitting, but that’s about it.
And sure, I can hardly wait until tomorrow. But I can also hardly wait to sit.
“We should string up some more blue lights,” the husband said a few days ago. He was talking about outdoor lights. He was talking about yours truly holding the ladder.
No sitting there.
“We should get another stuffer or two for the kids,” he continued. He was talking about the drug store. He was talking about yours truly going along.
Again, no sitting there.
“We should invite some folks in for a drink,” he said. Would be fun, I thought, but it would entail a number of tasks that would require me to use my legs. Like shopping for canapés, say, and prepping a bowl of egg nog.
“I’m all over that,” I said, and so we issued the invites.
A little later today, however, after the tourtiere has been put in the oven and after the final bow has been tied and after the daylight begins to dim, I will crank a little Drummer Boy and light some candles.
We will set out a fire and pour something festive, and retire in the living room.
The shoes will come off and lights on the tree will go on, and we’ll plop ourselves down on the sofa.
I wait for this moment all season long: the window on Christmas Eve.
