For me, December 23 is not a holiday. That is its power. It is the day of almosts. Almost Christmas. Almost rest. Almost reflection. The day when the world is still required to function, but everyone’s attention has drifted elsewhere. You can feel it in the post office line, in the way clerks wish you a good one without specifying what “one” is. You can feel it in the animals. The squirrels have shifted from frantic to deliberate. The birds linger longer at the feeder, less nervous, as if they know something is about to change.
By evening, the temperature drops quickly. Porch lights flick on one by one across the neighborhood like a slow constellation. Somewhere up the hill, someone practices a trumpet, the sound thin and uncertain in the cold air. Somewhere else, a dog barks once and then stops, satisfied. The sky settles into that particular Roanoke gray-blue that never fully darkens, reflecting city light back down into the valley.
Today asks very little. Just to notice where you are. To recognize the shape of the place holding you. To acknowledge the quiet before the noise resumes. Tonight, Roanoke is steady. The mountains remain. The creek keeps moving. Tomorrow will bring its own weight. For now, this day is enough.