Boxes

This weekend we shared a day with our daughter and grandchildren of fairy tale proportion. A day of preparation, a day of anticipation, a day of celebration. On this day we carried the boxes down from the attic, the boxes so well known to us even though they are seen only twice each year, once when we unpack the decorations and again when we repack them. The boxes that hold our years of Christmas. Boxes that look very much like those we are packing at my mother's house. Unlike those boxes, these hold the excitement of Christmas, excitement clearly marked in black magic marker.

As we unwrapped the ornaments, put the baby in the manger and tested the tree lights we told stories of our past, stories of family gatherings, Christmas Eve with 'the cousins', Christmas mornings with our parents and grandparents. We hummed along to Christmas carols and made subtle adjustments so all the bulbs didn't remain on one branch. On this day we brought Christmas past into our home and into the lives of our grandchildren.

When we thought the day, this day, our day, could not be more we were treated to a visit from Santa himself. In our house, on our day, a family memory was made. A memory that will live on in our family for years to come. A memory that will one day be brought down in a box from the attic and shared on a day like our day. A day that bridges gaps. A day that brings us together. A day when life finds its way down the stairs, out of the boxes and into the lives of those we love.