advent ovenbird We get an unexpected reprieve from the rain. I have to put sunglasses on because my eyes become mole-like in winter, unaccustomed to light. My parents and I walk the dog, my dad falling behind. His hip hurts. He’s stiff from yesterday’s eighteen hour journey to my house. He hasn’t fully recovered from his brush with death in April and when I see him now I think it’s possible that he never will. The poison in his blood eroded his vitality and left him old. It’s strange how aging can happen suddenly. It’s not a linear thing. Sometimes you skip a few squares on your way to the finish line, except in the game of mortality no one wants the privilege of jumping ahead. We come home from our walk and have coffee and doughnuts for lunch because it’s Christmas and we’re together and the regular rules don’t apply. In the afternoon we listen to music and as the voice reaching me from the speakers works on breaking my heart my eyes fall on my daughter’s Advent Calendar—twenty-four tiny wooden drawers upon which a small snowy village sits, glowing from within. Sixteen drawers already stand open and empty and they look like the past offering only a memory of sweetness. There aren’t many drawers left. We count the days and we count the years and there will never be enough. There’s a part of me that fears joy’s arrival because as soon as it’s here, it’s over. I would live with one drawer forever closed, an endless unrealized possibility, insurance against goodbye. 251217 what's it to you? who go blather from