“Bye bye, lully, lullay.”

They hadn’t expected to arrive in time for supper — ferry reservation was for 7, which meant arriving after 9, assuming no delays–but then they sent a text to say they were on the 4. I set the table and put out what we call “snack” (but a more elaborate version): a duck and hazelnut pâté, and a lentil one for Karna, who is vegetarian; elk salami, fennel salami; olives, hummus, green beans dressed with pear vinaigrette; some cheeses; wine. And how lovely to see the headlights of their car on the dark driveway, to welcome them at the door, to sit at the table and talk and laugh. All day, as I put gifts under the tree, tidied, tied a last ribbon around a bough over a window, I listened to the old carols.

Lully, lullay, thou little tiny child,
Bye bye, lully, lullay.
Thou little tiny child,
Bye bye, lully, lullay.

It’s the season of ghosts, those who are not with us for the richness and music of the darkest days of the year, the light so low that I watched a little line of pink and gold just after 4 yesterday, taking a break from the roasting of a duck, preparing a gratin dauphinois, brussels sprouts, carrots for glazing with brown sugar, butter, and ginger. I thought of John’s mother as I brought down her willow plates for Christmas dinner, her shallow soup bowls for the trifle, my parents as I found the white linen damask napkins they received for a wedding gift in 1950 and never used, polished the silver coffee pot that was a wedding gift to John’s parents (and then I forgot to put the coffee in it for yesterday’s brunch…). When a video call came from Edmonton with beloved faces eager to show their gifts, their voices disoriented me for a moment. Weren’t they just here, sleeping in the back bedroom? Weren’t their parents out for a run before dinner? And weren’t there 3 very small children waiting in their rooms for their father to put on the music, the Chieftains’ “Bells of Dublin”, a signal that it was time for them to race out to open their stockings by the woodstove? Where have the years gone? Up the chimney with the smoke of the fire.

And I didn’t mean to read the news yesterday, one day without it, but I couldn’t help myself. In our warm house, with our plentitude, our daughter and her partner washing dishes, walking with us by the marsh where the damp trees gleamed, the wars still raged, the bombs still fell on innocent people.

Herod the king, in his raging,
Chargèd he hath this day
His men of might in his own sight
All young children to slay.

Today I am the only one awake. Last night there was a wild storm and the power went out. The clocks stopped, the lights flicked off, and so we all went to bed. John was up in the small hours to stoke the woodstove and then, once the power came back on, he went around the house, turning off the lights we’d left on. So sleep on, sleep on, while I listen again to an old carol, the Coventry Carol, which feels too prescient, and hope for a year to come in which the world somehow steps back from the violence and ancient territorial battles. Right now there’s a scrap of blue in the southern sky, almost a blessing, and the chickadees are feasting on sunflower seeds, the Anna’s humminbird couple breakfasting on sugar water in the feeder outside the kitchen window. Let there be peace on earth, goodwill to all.

That woe is me, poor child, for thee
And ever mourn and may
For thy parting neither say nor sing,
“Bye bye, lully, lullay.”