I wake up to Today, December 23, 2011:

Bed: A folded red-striped shirt, under my pillow. Mounds of blankets. The quiet. The calm. A swollen, painful right foot. What happened to the foot, I cannot tell you.

Downstairs: Keurig coffee maker—single servings. More quiet. Dogs waiting patiently to go out. Boxes piled high, waiting to be wrapped. Wrapping paper and gift tags. The tree, decorated for two weeks already, shining. Two cats, no kids—not until tomorrow. More laundry. Emails to answer. Training to complete, online. Shrink-wrapped windows, undone by teenage cat claws.

Outside: Gray, damp. Carpet of wet leaves. Dark bare branches overhead. Some wind, but still, the quiet surprises me.

I wrap gifts. I email. I elevate and ice my foot while I look at photographs and send greetings on Facebook. Do I think about yesterday, the day before, the day before that? I do, of course. But I have become accustomed this house, myself in this house, without the girls, without company. I do fine, now. I try, sometimes, to imagine it’s always been like this, just like this.I would have told you three years ago that I would not get this far, that it would never feel fine, or well, or good—living here alone, half the time. Somehow, I grew into the place, into my own bones and skin. I remember early Christmases in this home, my older daughter toddling through a maze of crumpled wrapping paper, the noise, the visitors. I remember that I loved the house because of its staircase. I pictured little girls, perched on the stairs, peering into the living room on Christmas morning. I wanted to live here because I wanted that moment, every year. Nothing fancy, nothing complicated. A simple wish.

I get my Christmas wish—at least, something in the ballpark of that wish—every year. Two daughters, happy despite all of the sadness they’ve seen, despite their parents’ difficulties.

No other desires have proven to be that simple, that uncomplicated.

I don’t wish for very much, anymore. I don’t trust hope. Hope is an unpredictable animal, a starving companion. It’s too difficult to feed. Best to let it find someone else, let it dog someone else’s heels.

If any wish has been granted, that is enough, I think. I remember, and I say thanks. I am lucky enough, no more or less special than anyone else. I am blessed enough to know the line where I stop and my daughters begin. This is plenty, plenty for one Christmas.

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