The Hours of Evening, XVIII: The small happenings, the thousand nothings

The small happenings, the thousand nothings, a letter, a date, a humble anniversary, a word said once again as in days long ago uplift your heart and mine in these long evenings.

And we celebrate for ourselves these simple things, and we count and recount our old treasures, so that the little of us that we still keep may remain steadfast and brave before the sullen hour.

And more than is fitting, we show ourselves solicitous of these poor, gentle, kindly joys that sit down on the bench near the flaming fire with winter flowers on their thin knees.

And they take from the chest where their goodness hides it the bright bread of happiness that was allotted to us, and of which Love in our house has so long eaten that he loves it even to the crumbs.