A toothbrush Christmas

I brushed my teeth on Christmas Eve just before crawling into bed. And there, swishing in my mouth with the paste, was a … hair?

Yep. A long, lone, black hair.

A Christmas blessing.

Our two daughters are “home” for Christmas. They’ve plundered my bathroom, where like sheepdogs in spring they shed long, black hair over counter, sink, floor and toothbrush – enough to weave a sweater.

It’s the price of being together. The wee, small price of family.

“Hey,” I announced, squinting at the brush. “I just found a long black hair on my toothbrush!”

And from another room came chortle, chortle, giggle, giggle, teehee.

A Christmas blessing.

Children achieve independence and leave. Thereafter, each visit is a gift.

Christmas visits are somehow most fulfilling. Perhaps they connect to memories of past Christmases, each more vivid than our memories of the more common daily events of childrearing.

Whatever Christmas means to you, may you find the gift of togetherness. May you add something to your woven tapestry of memories. May you find that errant hair, your Christmas blessing.

Merry Christmas.