Drive the 87 late at night, shake the last of the New Jersey drivers on the outskirts of Paramus and sail through the last ninety miles in peace. The little hamlet lies quiet, dark, stars shining and the Hudson River shivering at the end of the street. You wake hours later and do not remember where you are, the silence buries you.
By late afternoon, we are shivering in the quaint holiday activities of town. Hot chocolate is free. The Christmas tree is lit, you want nothing but for time to drift into oblivion. The forecast calls for snow.
She pours brandy into the egg nog, we stand on wide-grated heating vents in the Victorian house, everything is ridiculous and delightful and the flannel pajamas wait all year in the attic for this moment.
That is all,
and that is plenty.
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