Lights

A friend of mine in a Southwestern state, who lives primarily in her imagination, asked me what kind of Christmas lights I had up. My reaction was a sort of mild nausea and creeping shame. None, I had to admit. I have no Christmas lights up. I do not own any Christmas lights.

Some years ago, during a Lazarus episode, I bought two strings of small LED lights and hung them inside the house. I had a frequent visitor then, and the lights added something. Warmth. Cheer. There were two Christmases like that. 

I have hung those lights since but they didn't have the same effect. They became a memorial evoking sweet memories followed closely by sadness and the immersive, bottomless experience of wallowing. 

At some point, one of the strings, carelessly stored, became tangled. And the other, at least 25 percent burned out, made me hopeless. So I threw them away. I've not replaced them since. 

My friend in a Southwestern state wanted to see a snowy New England winter scene, warmed and cheered  by inviting multicolored lights, in her imagination. I'd probably enjoy seeing that too. 

Maybe it's time.