The day after Labor Day, as I swaddled Uncle Sam in bubble wrap and folded the red-white and blue buntings from the porch posts, stuffing them into the blue bin along with the patriotic wreath from the front door, I began to dread Christmas. I am in the blank period, one of the rare months of the year when my mantles are bare with no holiday decorations popping with color against white and cream walls.
Only January and September really, is when my house feels void of celebration, more so perhaps now, as my sons’ boxes and bins fill his room where once there was a train table. He
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