When I was a kid, I couldn't understand why the adults in my life seemed so uninspired by Christmas. I was happy - the prospect of a few days off from school, of cookies and candy, of lights and ornaments, of family and feasting, and of course, of giving and getting presents. I believed in Santa until I was eight, maybe nine, before I finally relented that maybe Santa was more than a jolly old elf, that maybe he was the spirit of Christmas in all of us. I'd like to think that as my kids grew up, I was as big a kid about Christmas as they were. I love to get out the tree and the lights and the old battered ornaments. I love sending out Christmas cards to everyone from my family. But things have changed. There's a sadness to it I didn't want to face last year. My Grandmother Bowden has been gone for several years now, but she had been lost to Alzheimer's years before, so I didn't mourn her passing as much as maybe I should have. This year my Nana died, and my friend Sarah. And while I didn't plan on dwelling on that, when I pulled out the Christmas card box, there it was - written in black and white on the address list I keep packed away. Two names to mentally cross off my list, because I don't have the heart to put the pen to the page and do it. That's too permanent, too real. I wrote out the rest of the cards, and I guess in a little while I'll find courage to retype the list. But not right now. Not right now.

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