Like clockwork, the Wedgewood South van pulled up in front of our house bright and early Christmas morning. After sliding open the back door and activating the hydraulic ramp, the driver slowly eased Meems' wheelchair down to the pavement and up the sidewalk to our front porch. Bump, bump, bump up the three brick steps, and then, he maneuvered the precious cargo into the house.

"Merry Christmas, Meems! Can you smell the bacon and sausage!? Alan is working on the gingerbread pancakes!"

She simply smiled a weak smile and nodded her head a tad. No words. Just a tiny nod. Her eyes were wide open, but, like a new-born baby's, her gaze was noncommittal, vacant.

Once I had her parked in front of the hearth room fireplace, I smothered her with hugs and kisses. Kelly, my niece/her granddaughter (aka Jody), set about fetching coffee and orange juice in lidded cups with straws for sweet Meems.

The very best part of the day came when Leonard arrived for breakfast. He greets her with this same enthusiasm every time he visits her at Wedgewood South. Best friends.

It took about an hour, but Meems devoured one of her beloved gingerbread pancakes and a slice of Jimmy Dean's sausage. The picture below is important because it helped us solve a mystery.

When the time came for Meems to head back to Wedgewood South for a long winter's nap, Kelly noticed that one of the lenses was missing from her glasses. A quick search of the areas where Meems had been "parked" during her visit was fruitless. It was Kelly who looked back at the pictures we'd taken that morning. Sure enough, the glasses were lenseless when Meems arrived that morning. No worries. The glasses don't help her see anything. She wears them for the same reason she carries an empty purse. It feels normal.

Merry Christmas, dear readers! You continue to bless Meems and me by stopping by this site from time to time. I love hearing from you. You can say "Hey" or "Merry Christmas" in the comment box below.