The Christmas Lights

Journal

Every December, Mr. Henderson lights up our whole street. This year, he almost didn't.

He's been doing it for thirty-one years. He started when his kids were little. They've got kids of their own now.

His wife June passed in the spring. The lights were hers. She picked every bulb. He told us the street would stay dark this year.

On the first Saturday of December, twenty of us showed up with ladders. Nobody called a meeting. We just came.

We'd had a mat made for his door — June's favorite pattern, her lights. 'Welcome home, Hendersons.' So she'd be there too.

At six o'clock, he flipped the switch. The whole street lit up at once. The kids screamed. He cried. We all did.

He stood on the porch for an hour, just looking. 'She'd have loved this,' he said. 'She always did.'

Thirty-one years of lights. This was the brightest one. Some traditions don't end. The street just carries them.