Christmas was a bubble, suspended in midsummer heat between the quotidian grind of last year and next, full of people and absences, love and laughter, food and beaches, sadness and songs, casting prismatic shadows before vanishing into thin air.
I know because bubble is one of my visiting grand-daughter's first words. She says it eyes wide, quietly, with a sweet glottal stop between syllables.
Somehow, perfectly, it conjures the sheer loveliness of floating light. Admittedly she does not restrict its use to actual bubbles (frequently blown for her ladyship's pleasure). It tends to cover blanket roundness - oranges, peaches, balls, tyres, even the golden Christmas full moon - although this latter was more of an astonished question, "Bubble?", as it glowed extravagantly over the horizon.
And, of course, as yet she knows nothing of the delights of the chilled bottled kind.
Pre Christmas, two of our guests - Tasmanian first-time visitors to Northland - were due to fly in from Auckland, to be collected from Onerahi airport at 7.05pm on December 23. Their sober chauffeur - who gallantly eschewed festive bubbles to make the journey legally - eventually returned from a fruitless 60km round trip to the airport empty handed.