Every year the lights matter more. Every year I wait for them, for certain houses that I know will pull out all the stops. With them we shake our tiny fists at the darkness. With them, we remind ourselves that spring will come again.

One house I pass on the way to Metro drips with soft white icicle lights. The bevy of bulbs transform this simple two-story into a fairy cottage.  It’s the slant of the roof and the way the house is tucked into the trees that does it. I could imagine Hansel and Gretel wandering up, expecting it to be made of gingerbread and marzipan. How kind of the occupants to leave the lights on till morning so we early commuters can be enchanted too.

I wonder if people know how much their efforts gladden the souls of passers-by. In that way lights are a visual reminder of how kindness spreads — from one harried heart to another.