It is near midnight, and the house is quiet. Near Christmas and the lights on our tree reflect their brilliance in the old wood floors. I can feel the coolness of the plate glass window even though the curtains do their best to cloak it.

 

Years ago—many, many years ago—as a child, I used to lay before our Christmas tree, inches away from the creche that sat beneath it. The stable had a winding mechanism that played a tune I do not recall. A resin angel floated at the tip of the gable holding a banner that read Gloria. At the back, an orange bulb lit up the scene where Joseph, Mary, baby Jesus, kings, shepherds, sheep and donkeys, were crammed inside. Each year the dry hay, once plentiful, depleted just a little bit until one year we could hardly cover the floor under his manger. 

 

I kept the room dark except for the orange bulb; sitting in the dark and contemplating whatever it is that children contemplate.

 

Tonight, I am contemplating all that led up to this moment for The Dolomite Review. So much time has passed since January, it is difficult to believe that the magazine was not even an idea. It wasn't until summer later that it began to take shape. Now, in the glow of a small lamp, in the shadows of our quiet home, I am writing out what I hope will be a reflection of the issues to come, of what I had intended those many months ago.

 

May your holiday—however you celebrate the weeks ahead—shine bright as an orange retro lightbulb and may your reading list brilliantly carry you through winter's darkness.

 

This month, we introduce John Lennon and his poem, Blueprints. John is an English teacher and writer from Northern Michigan. His poem struck us with its candlestick-like movement, room by room paying homage to what might have been. We hope you enjoy it.