Another Christmas. Another house. In a town and a state I left three and a half years ago. The couch and the coffee table and the little red cabinet are long gone. Though the Santas hang on my front door here. The white candle and place mat under it are currently brightening up my bathroom. The print on the wall now resides in my dining room. The lamp is in the guest bedroom downstairs. I still have the stockings draped over the back of the couch but the pillow didn't make the cut when I purged half of my holiday decorations. I miss my pretty boy Steinie. He's lounging in the corner of the couch with his left front paw slung ever so casually across the arm. And my Newton is crouched on the curve of the coffee table, cooperating more than he usually does for the camera. This December marks my fourth Christmas in my Colorado home, coming in second right behind the one pictured where thirty holiday seasons were celebrated. The remaining twenty-eight divided up amongst the thirty or so other addresses I lived previously. So much packing up and leaving, only to arrive and leave once again so soon. I've had to learn the roots thing on my own, from scratch, and hope to be where I am for a good many years. While I was growing up I thought traipsing around the country like purposeless vagabonds was the norm. I've been happy to discover a new normal as an adult. One of settling in and staying.
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