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I have no specific memory of December 1, 2006. None. Which means that, like the parade that is most of our days here on earth, it was spent doing those small but necessary things that so rarely leave a mark.
I can assume, based solely on the date, that it was like most of the days sandwiched between Thanksgiving and Christmas. Maybe we put up our tree that day. Maybe I hung five stockings that afternoon — because in 2006, there were still two dedicated to Christopher and I. Maybe it was a baking day. Maybe I had a raging cold and felt terrible and had my husband bring home pizza so that I could stay on the couch, reading our tattered copy of “The Best Christmas Pageant Ever” aloud while three kids sprawled on the floor with Lincoln Logs and Legos.