The story behind this song
It starts on the first of November, when the boxes come down and the lists appear in her handwriting, red pen on the kitchen pad. Cookie tins for neighbors you've barely met. Her up the ladder while you hold it steady, and by December the whole street glows. Everybody feels the magic. Nobody sees the hands.
She knows which grandkid grew a size, hides the tape so well it vanishes, finishes the bows at midnight while the movie plays low. Christmas doesn't arrive at this house on its own — she carries it in, strand by strand. For the wife who makes the season, and never reads the tag that should say: from her.
Lyrics
And you start building Christmas for this town
Cookie tins for neighbors we've barely had
You're up the ladder while I hold it steady
By the first of December, the whole street's ready
Nobody sees the hands
The cinnamon air, the ribbon on everything
Christmas doesn't come to this house on its own
You carry it in — strand by strand
You make the season, you make it home
You hide the tape so well it disappears
Midnight wrapping with a movie on low
I fall asleep; you finish the bows
Nobody reads the tag that says: from you
The cinnamon air, the ribbon on everything
Christmas doesn't come to this house on its own
You carry it in — strand by strand
You make the season, you make it home
There's one under the tree that's yours alone
It's this — every word of it true
The cinnamon air, the ribbon on everything
Christmas doesn't come to this house on its own
You carry it in — strand by strand
You make the season, you make it home
The one you strung in me stays lit — it stays
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