Larry's trees, sometime in early December, after a brief snowfall.
I haven't spent Christmas Eve in Brooklyn since 2001, but this year it was necessitated by packing both studio and apartment. We bubbled and glassined, crated and boxed delicate painted, ceramic, steel, and fabric objects until seven thirty, at which point, if we were going to cook, we needed to cease. After a stop at the grocery store, the van did not start. I jumped out, did some fixing (at least it was warm), and got it going. Cooked a quick meal, then collapsed on the couch, surrounded by piles of boxes and bubble wrap, escaped into a Nature episode about Tibet on PBS while the upstairs people banged and harangued with heavy heels, dragged furniture, and the whining of a motorized toy for the man-boy.
Today it is Christmas. We are going for a long, quiet day at my cousin's place in Carroll Gardens, no packing, a day of rest. Betsy is scheduled to leave tomorrow, in our van, with cat, and things that cannot freeze (my paint and houseplants, for instance). I am scheduled to continue packing, until Tuesday, when I pick up the twenty-four-foot-box truck, and begin to load the apartment. If I complete this mission according to schedule, I will drive out of Brooklyn on Friday, January 2, with every thing we have in tow.
I believe I just saw a little sun on the wall, in the cavity of an emptied bookshelf.