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It would not matter if I straightened the Fall decorations on our coffee table twice an hour.  Or if I bothered to count the kernels in the carpet someone picked off the Indian corn.  Or if I paused at three, five and seven o’ clock to restock the cornucopia with its missing fake fruit.  Or pulled an orange candle out from behind the couch.

No…it would not matter.

Because at seven thirty, the Fall decorations go to bed.  They have no choice. “They’re tired,” my son tells me.  And I watch as he lines up each decoration–corn, candles, fruit–single file into his train blankie and then whips the cover over the top.

” Can I see them?” I ask.  And he hesitates before proudly peeling his blanket away.

Only I don’t know if the decorations have ever had it so good…

They’ve certainly never been loved quite like this.

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