We didn’t decorate the first Christmas we lived together. The end of the semester had been unusually busy, since we were finishing up our PhD program applications on top of the usual coursework and grading busyness. I took off for New Orleans while the then-Mister Boyfriend finished writing his papers, and managed to smush my car a little. When I got back there was the usual insurance and repair nonsense to deal with. All of that, coupled with the fact that we were going to be out of town for most of the actual holidays, made dealing with a tree and wreaths and lights seem like just too much to bother with.

One dark, cold night the week before Christmas, the doorbell rang unexpectedly. It was my parents, bearing a rosemary tree and this tiny plastic Christmas tree, which is about four inches tall. (It lit up then, but I haven’t replaced the tiny batteries in awhile.) They couldn’t bear the idea of us spending a tree-less Christmas, even though we planned to come over and enjoy theirs on Christmas night. It was ridiculously sweet of them, and the little tree has lived in my study year-round ever since, next to a tiny Empire State Building and the bobble-headed skull barrister.

Happy holidays, lovely readers. Thanks for making me laugh and think every day of the year.