It's Christmas letter writing time and I couldn't be more ready for a reason to sit in the afternoons and to read through what this year was, to try to put it into a few words on a single sheet, words that are not too private, not too loud.  Words that are slightly uncomfortable but that string together right.  

I'll read it a thousand and one times.  Then I'll ask him to read it and I will worry over it like a baby.  I'll pick away and smooth out and my blood will be in this letter by the end of it all.  But right now it is nice to sit on the couch and to stare at the beautiful, blank page.