On the signs of the season

the whole is greater than the sum of its parts

We’re so different but not so different, too. I don’t share her love of clothing and organization, but I do like noticing the tiny details around me and the little signs that seem to have a deeper meaning.

It’s Saturday afternoon and we are sitting at a cafe table eating chicken salad studded with cranberries and walnuts wrapped in a tortilla. It’s late in the afternoon, well past lunchtime, and the waitstaff is milling about taking inventory and cleaning off counters. I recognize the owner sitting at a table facing the wall of windows, looking instead at his laptop and studying a spreadsheet. Outside the air is cold enough for mittens and hats and the brilliant blue December sky yesterday has turned to a flat white today, foreshadowing snow. I watch the front door open a few times while we are both quietly munching away. A few people saunter up to the counter, set their shopping bags down, and eventually walk past us to sit by the wall decorated with a spray of holiday greenery and twinkly white lights.

The blue trail on a blue sky December day

“Is that a new sweater?” I say, looking at my spouse Janyce who is sitting across from me.

“Fairly new, maybe in the last month?” she says.

“I like it,” I say, noticing the little flecks of blue and green and gold woven into the wool, the high-ribbed collar with the center metal zipper unzipped halfway.

I almost say out loud, “Now don’t go buying yourself things in December when people are trying to get you presents,” but I stifle the urge. Truth is, Janyce is pretty easy to buy for when it comes to Christmas presents. She appreciates many well-made material things, especially personal items of attire.

Janyce is a clothing person and a detail person. In the early days of our friendship, I used to make it a sport to notice what she was wearing every day when I met her in the coffee shop, before we boarded the commuter train to Boston. I would look for what ring she chose to wear on what finger. I’d notice how it would perfectly coordinate with a particular small shirt detail, like an interesting stitch or a tiny metal button on the sleeve, and what pair of shoes and scent she would choose to complete the outfit. Her wardrobe is four times the size of mine. Through the years, we’ve often had arguments about our one shared bedroom closet. These arguments are mostly me complaining petulantly that I don’t have any space. And Janyce will simply give in rather than make the finer point that I really don’t need any space, and instead move some of her clothes downstairs and clear off a few more shelves for me, shelves that will remain mostly empty, while my clothing is perpetually tossed in a pile in the corner.

We’re so different but not so different, too. I don’t share her love of clothing or organization, but I do like noticing the tiny details around me and the little signs that seem to have a deeper meaning.

Sometimes Janyce can be sitting next to me on the couch, both of us quietly thinking our own thoughts, and I will speak out loud and ask her a question.

“How do you do that?” she will say. “I was just thinking the same exact thing!”

There is an idea in physics called quantum entanglement, which at its most simplistic definition is when two or more objects cannot be understood without reference to each other, even though they may be light years apart in space. Or another way to say it is when particles are entangled, they can no longer be thought of as having separate properties. The artist in me likes to see the poetry and romance in this concept even if I don’t fully understand the science.

Janyce crumples up the wax paper that was wrapped around her sandwich and drops it on the pile of dishes in the middle of the table. We’ve taken the last sip of our shared cup of latte with a heart shape drawn into the foam on top.

“Let’s take a stroll and look at the Christmas lights before we head home,” she says.

“Great idea,” I say.

I don’t remember it happening, but the light of the day is mostly gone now as we ride in the car toward the town common, passing by the bank and a few storefronts with their LED-lit tree trunks shining a bluish techno tinge.

“Wait, turn the car around,” I say. “Let’s check out that gift shop we’ve passed by for years.” I point to the sign lit up in the parking lot by the store’s entrance. The commuter rail platform below is empty, but all the lamplights cast white circles on the pavement.

We hold hands wrapped in winter gloves as we walk toward the store.

“You know, I’m about to spend your money in here,” I say. “I can feel it.”

“Ahh the Christmas spirit,” says Janyce. “There it is.”