Here is a true story, from my actual life:
When I was home for Christmas, my mom and sister and I were sitting, talking, in the front room by the tree. It was dusk, and as we were talking, my mom realized that I was staring intently at/out the window. (To fully understand why it struck her as odd that I'd be staring intently out the window, let me tell you what you can see out that window. ... Three of Sam and Sharon's (barren, wintry) trees and Mocina's empty driveway. That is to say, not much.)
My mom stopped talking and asked me what I was looking at. My response? "The window."
Mom: "The window?"
Me: "Yeah. The window. And the Christmas lights. This is my favorite time of the day, when the sun starts to go down and you can actually see the lights on the trees get brighter in the reflection on the glass."
Insert silent pause here.
Me: "See? They just got brighter!"
Mom chuckled, and then, wryly, said "You really are a small town girl, aren't you?"
Yes, yes I am.
Born and raised, thanks. Small town, through and through.
Even now that I am back in the city, it seems that all I want to do is sit and look at the reflection of the lights. In the patio window. Against the pool. ... On the TV.
That's right. It's the middle of January and still have my tree up. Don't judge. ... I love the lights. They bring me joy.
Probably because I grew up in a small town, just off a dirt road. And I'm good with that.