Tiny white lights have always pleased and calmed me. My mother never allowed colored lights on our Christmas tree, saying that "only common people" have colored lights. Ours were always white, and when they were invented, ours were always tiny. At night during Christmas season, I loved
going into the living room alone, where I played carols, reading music from a little yellow and green book, on the piano my mother brought into the house. I then lay on the green rug in the living room and watched the twinkle of the tree on the large front porch, glassed in for winter. If I was lucky, Daddy had earlier lit a fire, which crinkled and popped behind me. If I close my eyes now, I can still see the beautiful white-and-green tiles, surrounding the fireplace. I remember Mother designing, painting, and firing them in the basement. (Six now form the top of a brass table Daddy made for me years ago.)Somehow, subconsciously, the Christmas lights I hang all year long on my front porch echo my childhood, when I slept all night along, in a room on the first floor with my parents who loved me down a long hall and my brothers who loved me on the floor above.
Even though they aren't all still alive, they still love me and always will.
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