December 8th

December 8th. I vividly remember a December 8th from my youth. Every December 8th, I go back to that day.

A young teenager, I experienced a train of thought that although seemingly inconsequential and unimportant, formed one of the most vivid memories of my life.

I walked home from the bus stop on December 8th. I was 13 or 14. My long wool coat was flapping about my ankles in the brisk wind. I was on Salem Road in Cherry Hill, New Jersey. A boy named Matt liked me, and being half-sane from boy craziness, that gave me a particular spring in my step. Later that day, I had a dental appointment and was looking forward to driving through the picturesque town where the office was located. There were sure to be beautiful lights and decorations dotting the quaint streets. My coat was purple, the leaves were blowing around my feet, and it was 17 days till Christmas.

I'll never recall an iota from my Senior Prom, or conjure up a visual of my grandmother's face, but I'll remember with precise detail where I was on a dreary December day 20 years ago. Perhaps the simple beauty of winter, a girl's crush returned , and the joy of Christmas were enough to meld and mold a date and a memory in my mind.

And so, every December 8th, I remember that day so long ago, and look at where I am now. At 9:15 a.m today, I became aware of the date. With Scot being out of town, I had gotten both kids dressed, and taken Maggie to school in the bike trailer. At 8:30 a.m. two of my daycare charges rolled through the door. I realized two hand fulls too late that the 18-month- old had been eating play dough. His brother had been reprimanded earlier for pulling the garland off the tree. Nora was crying from a lack of sleep and Daddyitis. And as I went to take a sip of my coffee, I found a fuchsia star ornament bobbing at the top.