The words of 'September' breathe gently through my mouth, quiet so as not to wake my sleeping spouse. They are coffee-flavored with a shot of peppermint, and my sweatshirt still holds the crispness of December air. I drove to the store for a post-midnight supply run, the last I'll make until the holiday madness dies down, and I felt my mind grabbing at any unusual detail, looking, sneaky-fingered, for the right detail to steal and cement down for a place to start.

I couldn't decide.

Would I name you singly, indicating preciousness by the ability to recite you all, adding pithy and yet inscrutable comments behind each name, trusting that each of you would see past my elliptical references to the sentiment beneath? Would I reference you by groups, using commonality as insurance against accidentally forgetting a name?

I realized there had to be another option, and I realized that I had it the other night, sitting in a hot tub with a friend somewhere outside of Atlanta. I had it when I crossed my hands behind my neck, wrists immediately chilling in the cooler air, and looked above the tree line and saw it.

Orion.

The relative remoteness of my childhood home brought the night sky tapestry into a sharpness of relief that, since, I have rarely seen equaled. Clear nights brought the cool glaze of the Milky Way over stars so achingly bright that it seemed they could not possibly be so far away as science dictated. Constellations were a given, a breathtaking confetti-strewing of stars that was not the case when I began taking road trips. Country gave way to city, and nighttime darkness made way for streetlights, and a dampening of the night sky I had loved so much as a child.

My car took me to places I had only read about, and continually put me in the company of new people. Away, I would throw my bags in my car and search the night sky, looking for traces of familiarity. Orion was it; the low-slung hunter in the base of the sky that always, somehow, seemed to point me home.

At seventeen I looked up at the sky and saw a blank sky strewn with stars.

At twenty-nine, I look up at the sky and see possibility and remembrance; of many other nights, many other trips, during which at some point I would sight the sky and, mentally, find my bearings. Each time, overlapping, another memory was added to my perception of Orion, until my mental tracing of the invisible lines between stars traced highlights of my life as well.

Each time, I wondered where life would take me. Wondered who I would meet, who would become important to me, how they would change me and my perception of the world around me.

I could not have imagined you, all of you, in all your contradictions and contrariness and complexity, and I am grateful that I could not, for I would have learned less had I anticipated more.

To all of you—Orion's gift to me—I wish you a merry and joyous Christmas.

We have our little traditions, Friday night dinner being one of them; we go out to a restaurant we like, settle in, chow down, and talk. Not purposefully, because if it were that way, we'd be doing it wrong. Just catching up.

We've been in an Indian-food rut for quite some time, as we've been dealing with a drought of decent Indian food in this town for several years and are happy to finally have an Indian restaurant in town that doesn't stink. We've become regulars, of a sort. So when Jeff suggested last night that we have Thai instead, I was surprised and agreeable.

"Six-thirty?" he suggested, and reminded me that if we drove in separately, we'd get to eat about a half-hour earlier than we would if he had to meet up with me at the house first. Plus, it meant we were more likely to avoid the madding crowd; after all, what else is there to do on a sleepy, chilly Friday night in Huntsville aside from chow down and go to a movie?

Exactly.

I beat him there, traffic having snarled his drive, and I doodled in my notepad while I waited. Mundanities: remember to take your tea strainer with you to Atlanta next week, and perhaps plan on hitting DSW first thing in the hopes of locating a well-fitting pair of loafers.

I forgot what I was wearing: blue sweater, blue wrap skirt, white tights … and my Santa hat. I was, apparently, completely oblivious to the stares and discussions that were going on two tables down from me.

There is something in my countenance that makes me eminently approachable. Even if I'm not smiling, which I tend to do for no apparent reason, I seem to have a sign over my head that says "Harmless! Please approach!" (Or, as my spouse likes to point out, people just come up to me and tell me things. We have no idea why, really. Pheromones are as good of an excuse as any.)

I looked up when the woman tapped me on the shoulder. Blond, late-thirties, a little careworn around the edges, a kind smile.

"I'm sorry to bother you," she said, "but you look like you're waiting for someone, and I thought you'd like to hear this."

I closed my notebook, nodded, waited.

"While we were eating, my children --" at which point she gestured over to her table, "saw your hat and said, 'Mom! Santa's eating dinner at the same restaurant we are!'" She smiled sheepishly. "I reminded them that there was no such thing as Santa, and they looked at me with these funny expressions and my daughter said, 'Then she's an elf!'" By this time, she was grinning fully. "I just thought you'd enjoy knowing that."

I thanked her, and they left the restaurant. Jeff slid into his place at the table moments later, and I said, "Just so you know, your wife is apparently an elf."

"Oh, really!" he replied.

"Bet you didn't know that." We both laughed.

(Now to figure out what my magic elf powers are.)

It was a good dinner. We talked over a lot of things that have had to stay unsaid while we were both busy: he with his project, and I with mine. It was the kind of cozy, lazy dinner that I just can't quite figure out how to have with anyone else but him. We've been leading separate lives for the past month, which will hopefully change after this next week. His project will calm down, and I'll wrap up my errands in Atlanta.

It's enough to make me a happy little elf.

Maybe I should get a hat.