december 'round here.

december's song: a jolly red union suit, ukrainian bell carols, sufjan's "holy holy holy," his babyhood wrapped in the arms of his fatherhood, mornings in the nursery with our little drummer boy and a his-size tree, six tiny pearls of teeth, bright-as-cherries hats (baby's pixie and mama's beret), rosy bloomers on christmas eve, button-bum pajamas on christmas morn, the little prince and a child's christmas in wales, dimpled hands on noah bells, dimpled hands on branches, oat milk and calendula baths at two in the afternoon, happy-pawing lights like i had handed him a bag of stars, a first blown kiss, the sweet, special magic of a first christmas, days ordinary and wonder-full.

when he wakes from dreams, he burrows into me, a boat come to harbor, all soft cotton and sweet milk and soul-deep sighs of "mama." in our apartment building vestibule, i bundle him for strolls while he stretches to peer at our neighbor's door. always, he raises eyes and palms to be the one to tote the roses. so many kinds of love.

we rock and nurse and listen to taxis roar by and watch dark break into dawn into day.

treasures: boots in delicious pink, a wool coat with velvet buttons, a wooden goose, a schoolhouse globe from a century ago, smell of paperbacks and musk, smell of violin varnish and moss and pine...

i pour another cup of coffee and think how little francis still is and i watch him spin 'round my feet as i write and wrap, lost in the wonder of gold ribbon unfurling, and i think how i always want a baby around. i dream up a christmas menu and play "all bells in paradise," and then i play it again. i plot our walking routes around the blue spruce and fir forests we'll pass through along the way. i am dazzled by my beautiful husband and the rosebuds of his mind: a fresh pine wreath in the loft, a night at the philharmonic, his wish to live parenthood again and again and again. i hear stories at the laundromat and overhear conversations between strangers (musician, magician) and think: poetry. i learn a new word (tsundoku: unread books that pile up on our shelves) and feel it: delight. i am tugged toward the window by the sound of carolers in the streets. i watch my husband walk our baby to the wee tree in the nursery window to say their goodnights to this big, beautiful city and i cannot look away. i think: i dreamed this, once. i order cappuccinos and i wait at crosswalks and i do the family wash, and others uncountable offer, "thank you for him" and "he's like a painting" and "how can someone so small bring so much joy?" and i have begged this same question of god and myself every heartbeat of every day since the very hour francis lafayette was sparkled into life.

there is so much that i want to say and there is so much that i can never say, but today, on the last day of the year that he was born, it is enough to say: 'twas a year of love, 'twas a year of joy, 'twas a year of dreams.