One set of children is waking up in a train in Indiana. The other set is waking up in their apartment in Brooklyn. And T and I are waking up in our own quiet house in the little northern city by the sea.

I spent yesterday packing up the guest bed, washing sheets, restoring my study, putting away ornaments and lights, and lugging out the crinkly little tree, which had clearly reached the end of its destiny. Christmas trees can tank so suddenly--one day they're festive; the next they're skeletons--and I, also, suddenly, find the mess unbearable and long for tidiness.

So Alcott House returns to its usual winter habits. Fog has settled over the still-dark neighborhood, and in the distance a ship's horn hoots. The cat is curled in his yellow chair, and T sleeps soundly upstairs. It is the last Sunday in December. The old year coils to a close, as the new year sharpens its teeth.

The last few months have been momentous in our family: losing Ray was of course devastating, yet J and H's engagement has somehow magnified the nuclear closeness. All of us have drawn together more intensely, despite geographical distance. It is a great gift to have such children to adore.

I am a person whose emotions are always fizzing and sparking, and because I'm a poet I'm always trying to house those sparks in words. But simple affection is better than rackety talk. Maybe just holding these hands is the best possible way to step into the slavering maw of the next four years. I know that my sons love me. I know that their partners are eager to love me. I know that my own partner loves me. I know that I love them all. Saccharine statements, yes. But it's remarkable how much strength they carry.