This year, my son comes home the week before Christmas. And first thing each morning, we walk a mile to the neighborhood coffee shop.

One small oat latte, to go, please.

On the way home, he sips the hot drink as we talk. About nothing, really, just everyday bits and bobs. But I feel close to him during this simple ritual.

I know these walks will stay with me for a while.

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Later, I FaceTime with my 89-year-old dad, and he is bright and upbeat. He tells me about all of his political activities and the goings-on at his retirement home.

His face is nearly unchanged to me, his energy is timeless, and his eyes are twinkling with humor.

I try hard to slow down and really listen, and to be present to the moment.

Because always in the back of my mind is the realization that these visits are finite, and I wonder how many we have left.

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On another day, my daughter calls to tell me that her entire family has come down with a nasty stomach virus, and could we please come by and take our grandson out in the stroller.

So we bundle up and pull into their drive, making the transfer from house to stroller very carefully.

I notice how the rosiness in his cheeks is gone, and he seems a bit listless. But he brightens up when we put Bing Crosby’s music on the cell phone.

Then he starts to sing Jingle Bells, with a wide-open exuberance in that sweet toddler voice.

And then we are off – taking in the neighborhood lights and decorations. He is transfixed by the reindeer with mechanical heads that move side to side with beady, life-like eyes.

And when we take him home, he cries and says, go back!, meaning he wants to keep strolling. And who can blame him for not wanting to return to the boring, sick house.

But he finally succumbs to his mother, and goes inside, but not without a teary wave from the window as we drive away.

I want to remember the expression on that little pink face, and recall this whole, sunny afternoon, forever.

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And finally, on Christmas Eve, my grandson insists that I pick him up to examine the creche on our fireplace mantle.

He is fascinated by the animals and the wee baby carved out of wood.

I let him play with the pieces on the floor. He has the donkey talking to the fox, and the angel hiding behind the barn, and little baby Jesus riding the sheep.

Watching him play makes me realize that these pieces were meant for this – they were meant to be brought to life by a little 2-year-old.

And so I savor this little scene of scattered mayhem on the rug.

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Later that night, all my chores done, I lie on the couch, exhausted, with my little black kitty nestled on my blanketed legs.

It’s been over a year since we found him at the shelter, half-starved and with a cone around his head. And now he is my shy, but attentive companion, especially through these winter nights.

He stretches, then darts beneath the Christmas tree, making me laugh as he corners and chases a small bit of fragrant evergreen.

This past year I have loved his entertaining antics.

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The holidays go by in a whirl.

In January, I always find myself wondering where the past few months went.

If you’re like me, you think in big strokes – cleaning and decorating the house, and putting up the tree, or trying some special new recipe for Christmas Eve dinner.

Choosing the right gifts, writing the annual card – all of these things are meaningful, but they don’t really leave an indelible mark.

Rather, it seems to me that it is the small act – the coffee run, the long phone call, the kiss of a tearful child – that will stay with me the most.

It seems to me that it is the small act – the coffee run, the long phone call, the kiss of a tearful child – that will stay with me the most.

So, I want to catch these ordinary moments as they fly by – because life moves so fast, and I want to pay attention to these small things that I love.

These poignant fragments of time, they are like the soapy bubbles that my son waves in a huge wand for my grandson to catch on Christmas Eve – they are so exquisite, so fragile, and so fleeting.