Candlelight

I can see in the window of my neighbor’s house. My view is from my kitchen into theirs. Normally the view is vanilla, they make dinner. I make dinner. Sometimes I see him early in the morning moving about in a white undershirt; that is the extent of the raciness. I try not to get caught picking my nose or walking around in my granny panties. I am sure they would be suitably thankful if they knew this.
For Christmas, they have put electric candles in each window. Just like mamaw used to have. I feel teary and sentimental every time I see them. I remember the long, long drive to my grandmother’s house; turning down the street that led to her house, the winter air pitch black around us and hardly any other lights on the road. Then all of a sudden, there they were, the Christmas candles, alight with welcome, and the promise of family and warmth. Hers always had orangey, red bulbs, tiny red pinpoints of holiday cheer.
My neighbor’s bulbs are a clear white, but that’s ok, I don’t mind. They still take me home. Laters.