We sit in the window at the tea shop, twinkling Christmas lights framing our view of a gray Greenwich Village street fading into dusk, when the carols and seasonal music are replaced by Nat King Cole singing of fascination. A wave of nostalgia washes over me, and I wonder out loud if it's possible to feel now (in the present, 2015) the way that people felt then (in, say, 1932) when they felt good.
Continuing the thought out loud, though, I say, "Maybe it's like Christmas, the way that all of those moments are sort of linked together, so that when you feel good now, it's the same thing as feeling good then, and there's no separation between now and then."
All of those Christmases, strung together on a single wire, like little lights, a single continuum of joy, each separate, each the same, all part of a single line that trails into the past and off into the future, and where we sit in the now, a single light of happiness burning, doing our part.
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