Our Song

Around this time every year, our town dresses itself up.

Not in a grand way. Not Rockefeller Center. More like a polite shrug with tinsel. The streetlight poles along Paseo Del Pueblo get holiday decorations clipped to them. Santa Claus. Elves. Candy canes. Snowmen. Stars that look like they’ve seen a few winters already and are fine with that.

The problem is geography. Our town is small. Earnestly small. The stretch of road meant to feel like a glowing holiday tunnel lasts about as long as a sneeze. You blink, you miss it. You cough, it’s over.

Naturally, Terry and I treated it like a sacred passage.

As soon as the first light appeared, we reached for each other’s hands. Very solemn. Very intentional. Then we sang. Loudly. With enthusiasm wildly disproportionate to the length of the "tunnel."

Fa-ra-ra-ra-RAA. Ra-ra-RA-RA.

Not in tune. Never in tune. Volume mattered more than accuracy.

We held hands through every single light. All twelve of them. Maybe thirteen on a good year. And the moment the decorations ended, right at the last sad little star, we dropped our hands. Immediately. Ceremony complete.

Rules were rules.

Then we laughed. The good kind. The kind that starts in your chest and surprises you on the way out. The kind that follows you all the way home and settles in like it plans to stay awhile.

We were very serious about this tradition. Which is probably why it worked.

We will not do that drive again. Not in the same way. Not in the car with the heater that made suspicious noises. Not with Terry pretending to conduct the song like a maestro who had lost control of his orchestra.

But traditions are funny things. They do not disappear just because the road changes.

I still see the lights. I still know exactly where to start. And where to stop.

Some nights, when sleep is kind and the world feels gentle, I drive that little stretch again. The tunnel is perfect. Longer than before. Endless, even. And Terry is there.

We hold hands.

We sing.

Fa-ra-ra-ra-RAA.

Some rules, it turns out, are flexible.

Some traditions know how to travel.

Shall we call that a miracle, or just good holiday planning?

Either way, I smile when the lights end.

And I carry the song the rest of the way home.