I love the lights.


They remind me of life as a teenager. When ’twas the holiday season I’d move my pillow, blanket, and Elise (beloved stuffed lamb) into the living room as my temporary headquarters.

Dino, my lovable feline rascal, would run from the side to the front window, paws up against and nose poking out of the blinds, “fighting” a neighborhood cat who was so bold as to come knocking on our door. As a result of his war games, pieces of the blinds had broken off and left gaping holes throughout the years and, when adorned by Christmas lights in the darkness of the winter, became my favourite way to gaze out into the night.

I love winter. It’s always been a season of romance for me. Of the few noteworthy relationships I’ve had, each one had begun or fully blossomed in the wintertime. So as a high schooler, I would spend my evenings spread out on the couch, television on BET’s Midnight Love, chatting on the phone ’til the wee hours of the morning on many a school night.

The lights and music provided a romantic backdrop for many conversations with boys. Oh, how I loved our talks. When they called my home, I’d leave their caller ID info on my phone to keep track of who exactly I was talking to. If I didn’t like him, I’d delete his number off the log because I didn’t like seeing his name on my phone. I remember a few of those who kept calling, and wonder when or how they eventually stopped.

The me of today avoids speaking to anybody on the phone. There’s only one boy (and two girls) I talk to now, and it’s alongside one another in the warm, romantic glow of the Christmas lights.

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