Christmas

Imagine you are a child and the magic of the holidays pours over you like the sugar powder over the freshly baked cookies on Christmas Eve. Can you sense the cinnamon flavor floating in the kitchen as you prepare rolls? Do you feel the soft flour tickling your hands as you work the dough into spirals of tasty wonders when you pretend to help your mother? Is the vanilla flavor filling your nostrils and make you wonder about the pastries baking in the oven especially for Christmas? Chocolate chip cookies rest on the plate keeping an eye on the Christmas tree. I am sure you notice the glimmering of all those sparkling decorations and the sounds of the carols resonating between the everlasting green. Garlands of tiny bells are wrapped around the emerald branches intoxicating the entire room with a resin perfume. Just look at it! A magical display of elegance in silver and blue dominates the pine tree that you cut from the forest and brought it home. The angel from the treetop rules the solemnity of the holidays and supervises the fireplace where red, orange and yellow flames blend in enthralling waves of heat that warm the space.

On Christmas Eve, only one fantasy visits the minds of the young and the old, the rich and poor, boys and girls from every continent. The aged man in the burning red suit carries his sack filled with presents for everyone who presumably behaved throughout the year. If you struggle, you can hear the reindeer’s bells piercing the icy air as they fly in circles pulling the sleigh from where Santa scrutinizes city after city and street after street for fear not to miss someone. He never disappointed me when I was a child. I remember I used to keep a keen eye on the horizon not wanting to lose his arrival. Even after staring into the night, not once have I caught him by the Christmas tree as he dropped the presents. I only found the books, or the toys, or the clothes, and I was happy he ate a cookie or two before continuing his voyage around the globe. As much as I hoped, I never caught him, not even once. I remember one special night when the flame of his costume sneaked through the door and disappeared before I had time to ask him about the North Pole and the elves, and how I can make it in that mysterious place. The shape of his boots imprinted on the fresh sheet of snow covering the asphalt.

On Christmas day, we listen to the nativity story and we sing carols heralding his coming for our salvation. I see Jesus in a manger surrounded by sheep, and the three magi as he rests in his mother’s warm arms under Joseph’s supervision.  Everyone kneels before him as the sky is brightened by the largest star ever. When I say Christmas, I remember the festive atmosphere in my grandparents’ house where we laughed, and we danced around the tree. I remember eating the wonderful meals my grandmother cooked and the hot chocolate in ceramic cups waiting for our return after we sang carols to the neighbors.

I wish I can go back to the time of innocence and purity where the hardest dilemma consists in not having enough time to play.