. . . Its story is old, the plot worn and the pages too,
But we read this book, anyway, over and again:

Giving is, first and every time, hand to hand,
Mine to yours, yours to mine. . .

~Excerpt from “When Giving Is All We Have,” Alberto Rios

At 1:00 a.m.Charlie heard the coyotes yipping and howling and they riled and roused him with their racket and then he made a racket and Frank woke and let the dogs out, and I heard all the commotion; we could have sworn a puppy was yipping on the doorstep, it was very strange and disorienting. Then Charlie and Suzi came back, but the yipping didn’t stop. I fell back asleep. And woke to a warmer morning, with slippery, gorgeous ice on the Charles and a glassy sculpture lit by a sunbeam. It’s Christmas Eve, I thought. I didn’t have a long time, but I went into the wetlands and slid around and Charlie barked at me to come back, but I found in the low branches of a bush in the middle of ice a sweet empty nest. And a beaded fern in a glass bud vase. Oh, I wanted to stay out longer. But I went home with my gratitude to my busy day of preparing for Christmas. In a quiet house. Very strange, a quiet house on Christmas Eve. But Frank had appointments and my son his errands and my youngest away until tomorrow. I baked dessert and wrapped presents and missed my parents. Christmas was their favorite holiday. I missed my father, who always waited until Christmas Eve to shop, asking for help with ideas for what to get for my mother. And then I, or my sisters, would take him out shopping and he’d buy everything we suggested and we got to wrap it. Frank and I got engaged at Christmas. I had a miscarriage at Christmas. I had a new baby at Christmas. Suzi came at Christmas, a puppy for the family. Frank and I used to drive from Florida to my parents’ house for Christmas. We bought a new house down the street from them for Christmas. Frank broke his wrist moving us at Christmas. We had a falling out with family one Christmas. We had a reconciliation one Christmas. One Christmas, when I was very young, I heard Santa’s sleigh bells heading toward Brush Hill Road, our neighborhood, our house, nearing our red brick chimney in the living room where we had dumped the ashes from the grate and hung our stockings. And then I fell asleep.