Ah, the lovely smell of Christmas vegetable soup. It’s decadent aromas waft throughout my mother’s house, finding their way into each nook and cranny, lingering there for a moment, then moving on to remind someone else what day it is.

It’s Christmas Eve, and I’m sitting at the kitchen table here in Florence, drinking a cup of Starbucks Ubora. The coffee’s hot and the weather, while not exactly cold, is a bit nippy, as it should be two days after the winter solstice. The rain has stopped, thank goodness, and it looks like we’ll be having a traditional South Carolina Christmas. That means no snow, no real need for a jacket or coat, but at least the sky is bright.

I didn’t do what I intended this year, namely finishing a book I started over last year’s vacation, but I don’t think that matters anymore. My life has something of a mind of its own, and for that, I’m grateful. I’ve never been good at making my own decisions.

At the same time, I’ve got a headache.

Living alone, I don’t have to put up with noises that I don’t make, not for the most part, anyway. The dogs bark sometimes, but not much, and there’s nobody yelling at anybody in my little apartment. Here, visiting the family for the holidays, it’s different. They yell and scream about almost everything, and damn, they’re annoying.

I’ve been living alone for more than ten years now, and I’m just starting to realize how nice that is. I love my family, but if I hadn’t left when I did, I’m sure that I’d have lost my mind by now.

On the other hand, it’s starting to become time to make a new family. I’m sure that it’ll turn into something not so different than what this one is, but I can’t ay I’m dreading it. I think I’ll look forward to my own kids making noise, my own wife getting distraught and upset over little things, and the way that I’ll start playing some music just to drown out all of the din and confusion.

It sounds strange, I know, but I do want the hectic life that comes from being a husband and a father.