From The House of Edward

In a Snow Globe

Long after midnight, when the silence is a sound unto itself, a soft blue blanket wrapped tightly around the house, enveloping all in the deepest quiet, I slipped out of bed. Lifting a woolen throw from off the chaise, I made my way to the biggest Christmas tree in the house and switched on the lights. Fairyland descended gently on the usual. What is it about this season that lends itself so readily to magic? Everything, it seems, conspires to wonder and amaze. The long-fingered frost on the windowpanes, the winter aroma of fir trees and hot chocolate, the ornamental colour - bells and carols, secret whispers and stolen kisses. I think of our little cottage here in the trees, bathed in moonlight and fairyglow and it almost seems as if we four are dwelling within a snow globe of our very own. A little wonderland separated from roving darkness by the clear glass dome of Christmas. It is said that Christmas is for children, but I don’t think that’s necessarily so. As the years go by and I see more of the sadness and trouble this world can parcel out, Christmas seems more of a mystery to me than ever. To think that no matter what occurs, it still settles joyously into my heart every year, retaining its full power to amaze and delight, to liberally sprinkle the enchantment of hope into every room. Merry Christmas, indeed.
I could have sat by the glimmering tree for hours, but soon I heard a soft yawn behind me and turned to see Edward, the fur atop his head mussed and askew from sleep, his thoughts nearly audible...”Come. Back. To. Bed.”... So, I did.