The last of the leaves have lost their grip, and autumn’s blue skies have turned pewter gray, hunkered down under a blanket of clouds. The landscape broods, the rain falls, the Christmas lights defy the somber mood.

The sun is like a bad employee, showing up late and leaving early. At 8:30 a.m. , the streetlights are still on and the pedestrians shuffle along the sidewalks like ghostly souls waiting for redemption.

The mercurial sun paints the horizon ivory with touches of sherbet pink and orange. Sometimes as the sun sinks, the earth tenderly wraps the trees in a veil of fog. Twilight falls like an indigo shawl on the shoulders of the house and we gather in the kitchen for a bowl of soup and a slice of bread, our backs against the radiators.

The mail brings love and good wishes, and I stack my blessings in a sturdy basket on the table. I gather the year’s griefs on a string in my pocket and handle them one by one.

Prayers, like colored threads, weave through my hours: for J who is going through a divorce, for S whose brother died this week, for M facing her first Christmas as a single mom, for E who works with the severely retarded, for M who has had his second heart attack, for S whose dad has been fighting cancer this year, for N who is being ravaged by three serious conditions at once, for M who is fighting drug addiction, for K who is pregnant after years of trying.

The end of the year is a curious mix of death and life, joy and grief, celebration and mourning. Just when it seems darkness will overtake our days, the balance shifts, the sun stretches, the lights come on, hope glimmers, faith triumphs, and we find a warm hand to hold as the calendar announces a new beginning.

© 2005 Veronica McCabe Deschambault. All rights reserved.

December 14, 2005