On the Thirteenth Day of Christmas. . .

Poof! It's gone. The holiday season doesn't live at our house anymore. Or I should say, at our condo. Gathered up all the decorations, folded up the tiny tree and stuck it back in the box until next year. Put all the plants and lamps back where they belong.

M. took down the wreaths, and the lights on the balcony, and put the screen back on the sliding doors. I think the lights will be the one thing I'll really miss – when they go every year, it really seems like winter's darkness had descended on the land.

And this year we were a little more melancholy than usual, I think. M. will be retiring after this year. He's already given up his "extra" job on the adjunct faculty at the U of MD, and now he's down to counting the days, hours, and minutes. Soon we'll have to start getting serious about looking for a new home in Texas, and leaving the Washington DC area behind. Mixed emotions, obviously – but I'm trying to look at it as an adventure and not a reason to tear my hair and sob.

So, the holidays are over and the new year is well started. New experiences await, and spring is just around the corner – so they tell me, anyway.

There's just one vestige of Christmas left in the apartment – my big white Kringle Bear, a Christmas gift from M. way back in 1987. Since 2007 was his 20th birthday, I decided to let him hang around a little longer. I think he's happy about it, too. Doesn't that look like a smile on his fuzzy puss?