The signs of Christmas are popping up all over town. And I’m not sure how I feel about it. It’s still November, and this morning, on my way to get an eggnog latte, I was confronted by dazzling lights, white trees, and some red poinsettias. And then I noticed the kiss~me mistletoe, and remembered I don’t have anyone to kiss this year. Christmas has come too soon.
When I was young, I used to love Christmas. It was such a magical time of year. My favourite white Christmas was in Kelowna at my grandparents. I was only four, and the youngest and cutest in the family at that time. It was a perfect Christmas spent jumping on the trampoline with my uncle, taboganning with my grandpa, drinking hot chocolate with my mom, and waiting up for Santa with my aunt. The pictures from 1984 painted a beautiful blended family, like the brady bunch, and I was the only grandchild, the only neice, the only child.
After that Christmas, all the ones that followed paled in comparison. I would still leave a note for Santa, and some cookies, too, but usually the snow was missing, and an aunt or two. Then when I realized that my mom was Santa, Christmas lost its magic. I had to start making my own magic and traditions. My mom’s burlap angel on top of our Christmas tree, my stocking hanging above the mantle, and the decoration under the tree, from me to my mom, are always there. Those variables don’t change. Our Christmas dinner is never the same; over the years, it has embraced not only our family, but our friends, some of them from other countries. And there were Christmases that I was not home, and I made my Christmas wherever I was, even if I was working on that day.
Now, Christmas has come too soon. It’s stirred some wonderful memories in me, and made me melancholy. That mistletoe and those Christmas tunes aren’t doing anything for me. This year just doesn’t feel the same without my missing pieces. Christmas is coming nevertheless, and I know it will be whatever I make of it.