The cool steel of a standard issue walker meets my grasp as I enter the morning. It's 8-ish, and family awaits. I shoosh-wobble-and-roll down the hall.
In the living room, Beau perfects his pyro skills, fueling white birch in the fireplace with dried leaves. His camping-induced challenge is to use only natural sources for his controlled blaze ā nothing artificial will do. He is succeeding in proving himself to himself. The only kind of proof that matters.
Mimi's already had her coffee. Her focus is now on Christmas brunch, embellished with our annual "fine food" samplings. Yum.
There is no tree this year. No wreath on the door; no lights timed for dusk. They're all stashed in the attic where no walker shall venture forth.
Nonetheless, this Christmas is as merry as so many others, cherished among beloved family members. Christmas Eve dinner of prime rib, followed by the classic Christmas movie Die Hard. Christmas morning with presents, Beau's fire, Mimi's brunch and my new right knee*.
Bless us all ā everyone.
* "Holiday special" knee replacement courtesy of a maxed-out-of-pocket with my Obamacare.
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