My fondest Christmas memory begins with decorating the house alongside my mother every December. My favorite decoration is a miniature porcelain Christmas village that my mom won as a door prize in a work raffle years ago. It's a pretty impressive sight, and it takes over our living room every Christmas. The porcelain houses light up, and each porcelain figure has its rightful place. There's even an ice-skating rink and mini-trees with fake snow. Outside of the porcelain church belong the porcelain carolers, which are in front of the angel statue and the frozen fountain. In front of the antique store is a porcelain lady selling candy canes, and a woman peddling porcelain flowers. The women are frozen in time, their faces in a dazed question to the porcelain passersby that seem to be waving at another porcelain acquaintance. In front of the train station is the Santa Clause with little children, next to the professional photographer. By the restaurant is the little porcelain gazebo, where the porcelain musicians play their brass quartet. A classy, jazzy version of "God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen" is what I imagine they would play, in their suits with tails, and top hats and bow ties. The tune wafts to the ears of the shoppers that are smiling and pointing at the Christmas tree being decorated by more happy men and women, their porcelain faces smiling on.
The beauty of this season captivates me. Window decorations seem to emanate the excitement that the inside of the store boasts, this same excitement mirrored in the awe-struck faces of children anxiously awaiting their turn with Santa. Behind the racks of merchandise, grumpy customers impatiently tap their feet, checking their watch every two seconds as though this small motion will speed up the line in front of them. They have places to be, presents to buy and errands to run. We’ve all been there – stressed, tired, impatient, and worse of all: late. Then, someone happens to step out of a store and right in the middle of your path on the sidewalk, as if they didn’t see you at all. Pedestrians push past you on the street, bags in hand, rushing to the next store in dire need of that last gift or two. Because we couldn't possibly forget "Susie Q this year - she's running the book club, you know, and I almost forgot about my in-laws, they're coming into town and my husband, Billy Bob didn't tell me until last night! In fact, I've still got to cook the turkey, scrub the floors, bake the pies and change the sheets on the bed." Oh wait, did I say beauty?
I distinctly remember being 10 years old, asking for one of those diaries that only opens to your voice - the one you could write all your secrets in and no one would ever be able to read them, and praying silently out the frosted window, the night or two before Christmas. It was after I realized that there was no Santa Clause. That dream was disillusioned when I found Santa's super special stationary – the one he had written me a letter on just years before – in my father's desk drawer. It was night, and the mild hills of snow in my front yard were illuminated by the multi-colored Christmas lights on the eaves of our house. There was a snowman in our yard, he stood about 2 feet tall, and all around him were the prints of trudged snow boots. His small carrot nose was crooked, and the lopsided line of raisins that served as a mouth gave him a disgruntled look. It was a rather humorous sight, but his originality was priceless. My friend Katrina and I had spent the good majority of the afternoon crafting him. At ten years old, I thought I had everything figured out. I was so wise, I figured out Santa Clause wasn't real. In fact, I was glad he didn't exist. The world made a little more sense than it had before. The story was rather illogical to me anyway, because Santa couldn't fit down our chimney. It was small and cramped, and the only thing that could climb through our wood burning stove was a squirrel or small rodent. And unless Santa had laid off of the Christmas cookies this year, there was no way he was shimmying down the 1-foot pipe that led into our fireplace.
"Can you spare some change, miss?" a homeless man shakes his cup in my face. I walk on by, explaining I don't have any cash. He mumbles something that I can't understand and rattles his cup to the next victim on the street. Wreaths and garlands decorate the holiday windows of the surrounding stores. It’s not much, but in the village, the stores rely upon customers that are relatively regular. They know they're getting business regardless of how pretty their windows are. But uptown, where everything is a competition and a ploy to draw in as many tourists as possible, the windows are beautiful. They pride themselves on this framework of beauty, a picture in time that is created to capture the essence of the season. To entertain children and to give the adults that don't have the hope of a Santa Clause back a small moment of their childhood. A small moment, which until now, had been gradually replaced with piles of work and hours of overtime - the joys of the season, right?
Something stops me mid-stride. The willingness of so many people to all live in one place, living such different lives utterly fascinates me. I find some sort of connection to the people I pass on the street when I look in their eyes. A glimpse of unreadable emotion flashes on their face, and disappears as quickly as it came. These strangers are people, who just like me, have a story to tell. But for a moment, they are frozen in time, rushing from one store to the next, buying a scarf from a street vendor or haggling at a holiday market. They appear as flawless as the figures in my village. They are a less-than-glamorous version of a childhood dream, and every one of them reminds me of home. The home that I miss dearly, (despite my eagerness to leave), that I can’t wait to see again. I tell myself that it’s just a day. A day that comes once a year, the value of which changes with the perception of an individual. Whether it’s a religious or cultural holiday: the celebration of the birth of Christ, or a day that is marked merely by Santa Clause and elves, it holds an importance to cultures around the world that is undeniable. To me, it’s baking sweet bread and rolls with my mom, sleeping in, sitting by the fireplace, reading books, and opening presents in pajamas. Christmas is my mother’s coffee cake and feeling my stocking before I can actually open it. It’s the garland that we hang down the hall and the sound of our rotating Christmas tree, in all its Martha Stewart glory. It’s making snowmen in my yard at 10 years old and gazing out the living room window. But above all, it’s being home with my family. And as delighted as I am to spend this Christmas here, enjoying time with my sister that I swear I never get to see anymore (even though we live in the same city), I want to let everyone back home know that I will be home for Christmas, if only in my dreams.
♥ Emily
9 days.
