Ghosts of Christmases Past

He is three. He didn't want the tree taken down at all. Yes, all kids love Christmas, and not only did he love it; he hated change of any kind. I look out the kitchen window and I see him out there. He is dragging the top of the tree back to the house. It is bigger than he is. His face is a mask of determination and his breath puffs out on the cold January air. Mother has kept up as long as we could stand it because he loves it, but he is devastated when he wakes up from his nap and it is gone. He has retrieved his love. Triumphantly he places it on the back porch in a bucket and Mama gives him some old ornaments to put on it.

I want to hug that little boy one more time. Or the baby that he was. Or the man he became. I just miss him so much...