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With one hand on my shoulder, my father pointed past the living room window to a red light in the sky. I leaned into him and peered up through the darkness. The front yard was a gray patch skimmed with snow, and little Candy Cane Park across the street was a puzzle of shadows. Above it all, a small red light blinked brightly.
“It’s Rudolph’s nose,” he said. “You better get to bed before Santa gets much closer.”
Suddenly, the whole dim landscape was charged with magic.
It would be many months later when I would realize that the red light flashed year-round from the top of a radio tower – but on that quiet winter night, with a few words and a sideways hug, my father electrified it with another possibility.
Years later, my mother gave me a single red ornament, a simple ball – an homage to Charlie Brown’s Christmas tree. I hung it on a scraggly shrub outside my front door; it hangs there still. Whether or not snow fills the branches, and whether or not we’ve draped any other holiday lights, that little red orb reminds me of magic.
Even a small gesture can change the story of the darkest night.
And this is why I love the Library - it is a sprawling collection of stories and serendipitous human encounters that can shift the tenor of an ordinary day; it is a constellation of gently blinking lights in a vast night sky.
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