We went from place to place, as fast as we could. We loved our time with family. I stopped for no scene, calibrated nothing, just lifted my camera above the crowds and shot, trying to freeze the color. At the British Museum, on the last day, we stopped and paused and stood. On the flight home I studied the skies and feared that all the color would be lost, remembered the state of the house as we had left it — Christmas packages high in one corner, but not a light, not the smell of pine, no Santa or ornament or bell.
My sister, though, had thought ahead for me. There was a package by the door, tall and skinny. There was a tree inside, lights, wooden ornaments. There was, in other words, Christmas. I set to work and there it stands—by the window where I work, subverting gray weather.
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