I’m working in the garden with a friend, our knees black from the rich soil I’ve cultivated for years. Bon Iver keeps running down from the house to deliver strawberry lemonade, sunscreen, little picnicky snacks and compliments, and eventually I ask if he’d like to join us.
‘Thank you, but I have too many things to do,’ he says. ‘I need to bring you parasols and cakes, and sharpen your trowels, and I’m writing a new song to make the peas sweet and the sunflowers tall!’
The spring sunshine revs up Bon Iver like an engine. By the time I put the coffee on he’s made the rounds through the pastures, replaced a broken salt lick, practiced his bird calls, dug a post hole, climbed up on the roof to observe a suspicious dust cloud, and written me a love note and tucked it into my apron.
After breakfast he is fast asleep on the rug with jelly in his beard, a hammer in his hand.
There is a good chance I will wish you a Merry Christmas this year. I’m episcopalian, Christmas is a big holiday for me. It’s not the biggest, just as Hanukkah isn’t the biggest for my Jewish friends, or Kwanzaa isn’t the biggest holiday for anyone, at all, ever. If I meet you however, and you…
I wrote this last year, now I’m reposting. I’m lazy, and it’s still relevant, deal with it.