Ting-ting-tinging on a December night

I'm listening to the ting-ting-tinging of raindrops falling down our strange metal-type chimney. It leaks air and is a bit of an eyesore, but we still get a sense of grandness with the small perk of a fireplace, even if it's in the corner of a first-floor apartment instead of at the center of our home and hearth.

Christmastime is here, and I'm always a little more nostalgic, a little more sentimental, a little more teary-eyed and a little more homesick. No matter where are, I still get those slight pangs in the heart that seem to echo the thought, "I miss something, but I'm not sure what it is." It could be Dublin, or Chicago, or Kansas. It could be those first baby years, those first marriage years. It could be my friends, my family, or my childhood.

And I always find myself here, every year, by the lit tree. The lights turned off, a child asleep and the ting-ting-tings of rain, wondering, what is it I'm still aching for?

decorating my mom's place