The notion is well suited for a socially distanced party. The Twelve Days of Christmas is a tradition that has popped up in our small town over the years. Never has the chance to participate with the crescendoing anticipation of generosity dovetailed so smoothly into the restrictions we find ourselves in.

 

It began last weekend, when five homes were given a copy of the book. A sweet gesture, which perhaps brought gaiety to families who were sitting alone on their own couches, sipping cocoa that they warmed themselves. Hearing a knock on the door has become an anomaly in itself, since we are not afforded even the small pleasure of visiting our neighbors. But it didn't end there. 

The next day a cadre of sleuthers acting independently arrived with some version of pears, or Pehrs, and a specimen of arboreal life. 

 

The following day, or night, the cast shifted to fresh messengers of playfulness, who left turtles, or white birds, or some object within the spectrum of poetic license.

 

French hens always widen the possibilities. I only wish my daughter who is currently in Grenoble could have come to my rescue and fetched me a triplet of croissants shaped by a local baker in the form of poultry.

 

Things got noisier with the arrival of bird whistles, and exclamations over avian lexicons. 

 

Today will be bright, as golden rings in some form arrive with a healthy dollop of mirth.