Stephen and I are out for a Christmas-lights walk around the neighborhood. So far, our own block is the most star-studded, but we head up Ash to the house we know is decorated to the nines: the big bulbs lining the walls and roof in warm colors, the lights stabbed into the lawn, the big ornaments hanging from the trees. As we round the corner into the bright glow of Christmas, there's a small crowd of people out on the sidewalk in front, turned toward the house. The adults hold mugs. The children chatter and shriek and laugh, one little boy jumping up and down, up and down.
We smile and nod as we pass through, and admire the bejeweled boughs, the bedecked deck. Up on the rooftop, something is stirring. A bulbous bulk of white and red plastic. Stephen says, quiet, "The Santa is inflating." At the edge of the sidewalk, ready to cross toward the next, very unremarkably decorated house, we stop and watch.
"Oh, we've come upon the unveiling of Santa," I say.
A woman turns and says, "Yes, you did!"
I feel both lucky for our timing and like we're intruding, and Stephen and I linger for a bit, joining the moment. Santa on the roof, over on its side, slowly, slowly fills in with shape.
"Look," one of the grown-ups says, and points away from the house, "the moon."
All the kids turn. We turn. It's a golden eyelash peeking through the deep gray sky.
The children call "Ooh!" and "Look!" and "There it is!"
"I'm the moon!" one says.
"No, I'm the moon!"
"No, I'm the moon! Mina's the cloud."
Stephen and I walk on, leaving the family behind, happily ignoring the electric glory of their home in favor of a tiny sliver of awe in the sky.
No comments:
Post a Comment