The day is slow enough that I notice the moment when a string of Christmas tree lights burns out. There’s no noise, just a light shift change to the right of me. I think it but don’t know it until a bit later.

I want to capture the slow-down of today. The hyphen of every year: Christmas day, a day all for us with no big decisions. KK’s not even up yet. Or maybe she is but I know enough not to bother her. Liz is waiting to do something while Chris is riding our stationary bike. Maybe this can suffice for the yearly letter I no longer write. This stop-time picture of today: the string of tree lights burning out, the bike wheels making their spinning noise, Liz in her new pajama pants, most of her body covered by a light green blanket. KK in her bed, cozy and most likely reading or texting or drawing.

Soon enough I’ll need to visit the grocery store to pick up the creole seasoning for the shrimp marinade. Maybe I’ll ride the bike, finish reading the Michelle Obama book. Listen to music, play scrabble, watch a movie. We are luxurious today, lucky enough to do what we want, minute by minute. We are well-loved and together: 50, 48, 16, 13, the cusp of a season just behind us and a new year almost upon us.