Rolling Hills of Ages Past.
A scent of burning pine, whorls in the wood patterns on the pine knotted walls, murmurs of voices I can not understand, a baby nestled in my arms asleep, my first born son. I am at my Parents house and I am a mother. God Almighty I am a Mother, something I swore I never become, but here I am, married and with our baby. The fire place burns nice and efficient burning bright and with eco-design it does not waste the energy of heat up the chimney. For once in the family, things are peaceful and I have the rare contentment of Christmas. My son is three months old.
One year later, I hold in my arms, our second son. My husband has made the nurses on the floor fall in love with him. He has while I slept decorated the room in near darkness and brought all the presents from Church folks (did not even know about this!) for me to see when I wake up. Festoon with silly paper ornaments and felted elf shoes and one small portable Christmas tree the size of a shoe box sits by the hospital window. Our oldest is brought from the Baby Sitter to meet his brother again. He is so happy to see his Mom he comes rushing up onto the bed (with help), then stops, mad. Because he had not seen me for several days (pneumonia for a week in the hospital), I acknowledge his feelings and tell him I am sorry, he lands with a leap in my arms. Our youngest, fat cheeks and all, sleeps away his first Christmas, he is two days old.
Twenty years later. I live in a dusty house, dirty floor with a bad back and bummed knee. The kids are grown, the husband is out on his own for now. I sip my tea. Christmas tree is still unadorned, but there are presents sitting pretty. Spice tea wafts around me, a fat kitty keeps me warm. My two boys laugh and plan Christmas dinner, and time worn family, keeps rolling on as do my memories.