Kate wrote about the smell of chestnuts flowering right now in Australia (a smell I can't imagine), but that took me back in time, 19 years, to the smell of chestnuts roasting, yes, on an open fire, on the sidewalks of New York City the December I fell in love with the man who was to become my husband. We met on a blind date and we were engaged six weeks later. That's how it happens sometimes.
But that December. Ahhh. Let me just visit my MemoryShed a minute. Because if you ever have the chance to fall in love at Christmastime in New York City, do yourself a favor and let it happen. The memory of it will sustain you the rest of your life. The tree salesmen on the street corners smiling broader when you pass, arm in arm, the vendors with hats and purses and books that line the avenues knowing you're a sucker for a sale, the shoppers with bags bustling past you, the singers, the shows, the lights, the pretzels. The unpreceded joy of tapping out the notes of Tchaikovsky's classic music in each other's palms during the first magical Nutcracker together.
It's as if Central Casting had supplied them all for your singular joy and amusement. And then a light snow falls. And a restaurant with a lit fire beckons. And the chill of night and the warmth of your heart commingle until you feel as if you are going to explode with happiness.
And so all this ran through my head the other day as I went to empty the "pumpkin people" we had made from old clothes and wheat straw that had been sitting on our front bench for Halloween with pumpkin heads that have since rotted. I moved the bodies to the back because I wanted to spread the straw in the garden, but then I saw them sitting there outside my window and I laughed.
"It's us!" I thought. My husband and me. Nineteen years later. A couple of shlumps. No, I don't think we look like that--at least, I hope not. But we feel like that. But in a good way. Settled in. Comfortable. Relaxed. We laugh more. We're easier on each other. We understand why I don't like loud conversations and why he can't stand clutter in the garage. We know who can solve the technology problems (him) and who can solve the spatial ones (me). We scribble notes to each other all over the newspaper. And we know that if we go somewhere that says events will occur both indoors and out, he will dress light and I will dress warm.
And as I stood there with these swirling thoughts, like snow that comes here once a year but skipped last year and doesn't look too promising right now, I heard it. The strains of our daughter's violin.
Playing selections from The Nutcracker.
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