New Year’s Eve 2019, we decided on an early dinner at an Irish pub. Evidently the door required only a light touch, as it swung open and caught the ribbons of gold metallic 2020 helium balloons above the entrance, causing a ripping sound and sending them to the floor. There was a collective gasp, followed by a communal groan, then silence, and all eyes were on us. "What an entrance," I thought, trying to suppress my laughter. “Happy New Year!” I greeted the dining patrons, my arms raised. The manager appeared with his stapler, as if he’d done so numerous times that evening, sighed an exaggerated sigh and said, “Great. Now it’s going to be 2019 again,” as he set to work repairing the decorations.

We secured the last two seats and soon blended in with the rest of the crowd.

In retelling my story to my friends on the west coast that night, one of them asked, “Do you think it’s a bad omen?”

Three months in to the New Year I recalled my friend’s premonition.

On New Year’s Eve, as I took down the 2020 calendar, I was tempted to ceremoniously drop it into the trashcan below. Last New Year’s Day a friend and I saw a movie in a theatre, I remembered. I turned to the month of March: my husband and I had dinner at Kathy and Dave’s. I hosted Book Club, took classes at the yoga studio, and went to the hair salon, all in the first two weeks. After that was a series of crossed-out plans.

Without the December calendar page, Christmas was beginning to feel like ages ago. Maybe it was time to put away the decorations.

On Sunday, as Kathy and I walked, bundled up in our hats and scarves and coats so we were almost unrecognizable, we heard the strains of a familiar Christmas carol…and a megaphone. On our neighbors’ lawn, under a canopy, was a Christmas tableau: a warmly dressed family of three sat in lawn chairs beside a small, brightly lit artificial Christmas tree, a pyramid of Christmas presents, a radio for ambience, and a bottle of the bubbly beneath a small table, with a wine opener on top. A neighbor appeared from across the street, carrying a tall heating lamp to plug in beside the tiny Christmas tree. The man spoke into the megaphone again: “Mom and Dad, come outside.”

First, Mom appeared at the glass door with an expression which betrayed the fact she wasn’t expecting company. Her family waved. She disappeared from view momentarily, before returning with Dad, who, with the same expression, opened the door as Mom handed him his face mask and his coat.

Kathy and I were tempted to linger. I smiled. There was still a little bit of Christmas left over after all. I shudder to think that this morning I considered taking down our Christmas tree to be ready for trash and recycling day.

I’m still playing Christmas music—Bing Crosby and Johnny Mathis, lately. Each night at sunset I turn on the Christmas tree lights—my cat likes to sleep under the tree. I think maybe I’ll have that second helping of Christmas.