I used to wait until the day after Thanksgiving to begin decorating for Christmas. Of course it’s not a French holiday, but I still feel it, these precious days. And in a moment of good news, of special thanks, I began stringing lights. 

Even when I take the time to put away the decorations, they seem to have the capacity to knot themselves into a frenzy — into tangles that no Johnson’s baby shampoo could tackle. 

I smile, remembering how golden that bottle was, just like the lights in my hand. What care my mother took with my long blonde locks. Stroke by stroke, she brushed each strand, staying true to the “No tears,” just as the bottle claimed. But somehow I always knew, it wasn’t the shampoo that kept the promise, but the gentle touch of my mother’s hands.

And isn’t this what illuminates me still? Isn’t this what sets my table? So I make a new promise, to her, and all the loves that surround me now, to ever be gentle, never careless, with these precious days. 

Happy Thanksgiving. Today and ever golden.