Other years I would have fretted. I am a Christmas traditionalist and tend to dislike an influx of tinsel and fiber optic gaud—my whimsy flourishes this time of year whilst I lie shrouded in the days of yore, and quite appropriately, lore. This is my first Christmas with Nick, and I knew even as we rounded the corner on November that he had his own set of traditions...traditions that may or may not encase mine. Ah, the blending of lives...complicated business. It was a blessing, surely, that the lights in my eyes have only just begun to dance.

We made a sort of gentlemen's agreement, sealed coquettishly over a handshake: you decorate with your stuff one year, I'll decorate with mine the next. It was a mock arrangement to begin with, but, nevertheless, I have been less than sprightly with my aching body...and more than willing to let Nick take the reigns. The tree took its place at the window on Sunday.

Out came Nick's collection of ornaments, and he showed me each one, each a memory made for him to hold. Excitedly he began adorning the branches, and he directed in a hushed sort of glee that I should add my own collection as well, that the activity had infused him with the holiday spirit. I looked at the wooden ornaments, most of them painted by Aunt Brenda, the others in Norwegian rosemaling, that my mother had given to me in 2003, knowing how dearly I loved the nostalgia the collections of tin soldiers and rocking horses summoned. So sleepy, I continued to watch Nick move to and fro with his sparkling grin.

But he persisted, offering even to place my ornaments himself if I wasn't feeling able. I rose from my blanket-nest on the couch and went to work. He was right...I lost myself in my smiles, and felt truly happy to see the finished product, the mark of his caprice next to mine. I hung the final ornament, photographed above, just this morning. Aunt Debbie gave it to me this past Sunday, and I know that she was smiling down as I let myself enjoy life and love.

And, I remembered. With many a smile.