December was kind. Work slowed. The city dressed itself in lights. I bought a fir wreath that made the whole house smell like memory—and promise. On a Saturday morning, I drove to a shelter with Elizabeth and we dropped off three boxes labeled “For Fresh Starts”: gently used coats, new socks, kitchen basics. On the way home, we stopped at a tree lot just to look. We left with a five-foot spruce strapped to the roof and hot chocolate burning our tongues.
As we decorated, Elizabeth told another James story—this one about the time he brought a stray dog home at twelve and argued like a lawyer until she relented. “He built a bed out of a banana box,” she said, looping a string of lights around a branch. “Called the dog Captain. He kept him for a week before the original owner claimed him. James didn’t cry when Captain left. He just cleaned the box and put it in the closet. ‘For the next captain,’ he said.”
When we finished, we turned off the lamps and stood back, the room washed in soft color. “Looks like a beginning,” Elizabeth said.