Kelly Waterhouse

Over the holiday season, I had inquiries asking if Santa Claus delivered my San Francisco 49ers George Kittle jersey.

This may be a lofty goal, but if I write it down it will help me stay focused. Keep me accountable. 

In the quiet darkness of a December morning, before the thick ribbon of bright pink sunrise expands, pulling the winter sun from the horizon line, there is a beautiful weight to the stillness. 

Dear Kelly, I received your letter, which I see you also published as your column last week. I bet the Carpenter loved that. You might want to hang some Mistletoe in your house.

Hey Big Guy, I hope this letter finds you jolly and that your reindeer are healthy and ready for the epic Christmas Eve world tour, where I know children anticipate your mysterious arrival and the subsequent leaving of presents. 

I looked in the closet. I looked under the bed. I searched the cupboards, the drawers, and the shelves. 

His face said it all. Crushed.  Sad. Grateful. Lost. It was over. And with it, a very beautiful piece of his generous, joyful essence that I unabashedly adore. 

I heard the snap and the immediate ping, but I lost sight of it as it flew through the air like a meteor. 

Right on schedule, our daughter’s wisdom teeth were removed last week. All four of them. 

There is a large Maple tree in our front yard that has yet to fully shed its leaves, but it’s a matter of days. 

With Halloween upon us, I figure there are two types of people in this world: those who love horror films and those who do not. I trust you know that I’m the latter. 

He loves me. 

I almost fell for it. It seemed legit. To be fair, I was on vacation. I was in a different headspace.

Thanksgiving again. A fine tradition that has me ordering desserts because I don’t bake pies and I’m okay with that.

I don’t have a medical degree, but I used to read the back of cereal boxes, which in the current political landscape appears to be the same thing.