‘Twas 14 days before Christmas when all through the house not a creature was stirring, not even Whiskers, our caged mouse. The stockings are still in a crate, and it looks like St. Nick is running late.  My children had crashed, done counting sheep. My husband is all snug in our bed, fingers texting against my thigh in his sleep. Our beagle yelps, frustrated with that black squirrel haunting her dreams. Out on the road the late night trucks raise a clatter, an owl hoots as if nothing is the matter.

I’m not a shopper. It’s just not my thing. So when I heard that Black Friday sales were starting at midnight the night of Thanksgiving this year, I wanted to puke. Like puh-lease retailers. Can I at least digest my turkey before you start cramming STUFF I DON’T NEED down my throat?

I just woke up from yet another dream about my Dad--the one who passed away almost five years ago. Each time it happens, I’m right back in that moment, when I could still touch him, ask for his guidance, make him the perfect turkey sandwich with cranberry sauce on top, and stress over what you buy a man who has everything for Christmas. And then there’s a crack in the dream. A sliver of light starts to interrupt what feels so real I can almost hug him. And then I wake up in tears because he’s not really here, and I miss him so much it feels like someone just yanked out a kidney.

It’s 5am and I can’t go back to sleep now, but in my early morning reverie, it came to me. All I want for Christmas is a new Dad.