Let me set the scene:

The sky is energetic with its intent to blackmail my plans of carrying in Christmas decorations from the garage.  I secure my over-sized sweater around my shoulders, and stubbornly press into the wind.

There is a pot of water on the stove gently simmering with cinnamon sticks immersed inside. The fragrance has consumed every room.

Christmas music plays from the stereo, Rowan is rhythmically turning circles in the center of the room, humming as he stares at the lit web of lights on his train table.

Decorations litter the floor, becoming impromptu toys for two larkish orange cats.  The larger of the two bats a plastic santa under the couch, meows, and lurks off, his play thwarted.

There is a lightness in the house.  A mirthful anticipation of what is to come.

Christmas has arrived at our house.

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