The years fold on top of each other like the pages in an accordion book, each one nearly obscuring the last. Tonight we decorated the tree with ornaments from DH’s childhood. Bean’s eyes were wide with wonder, and he tried pulling on the strings of lights. We spent the evening watching old home movies from when DH was small and eager, hoisting his parents out of bed before the first morning light to unwrap heaps of presents. Crazy how his parents have the same voices twenty years later. How they say the same things. How some things never change. And then we wonder: is this how we’ll still be?
I try to remember my own Christmases growing up. I see snapshots. Glass bells and red balls. Real candles on the tree. Christmas morning pancakes. Taking turns to open just a few presents, and then saving more for the remaining days of Christmas. Singing carols around the tree in the semi dark of dancing candle light.
I try to remember my parents, and gather only scraps. The warmth of my father’s chest as I sat curled up against him singing carols. His eyes like bluebirds in flight as he guessed the content of each present. My mother making gingerbread, her hands holding the wooden rolling pin. Her eyes tearing up at a certain German carol that reminded her of her own childhood traditions.
DH and I imagine making Christmas next year in our new house. Snow on the ground. Good food. We laugh trying to imagine how Bean will remember us after years there. What will we look like to ourselves when we look back on the blurry video footage of NOW?
The clock is about to chime bringing tomorrow. Another Christmas with some small nook of my heart still filled with wonder at that bright Christmas star that led shepherds and wisemen to the birth of an incredible being. But it is also filled with a flood of love—for the people I am with, and for those I’m missing across the country.
Merry Christmas to all of you wonderful blogging folk who have filled my life with so much humor and brilliance and beauty and snarkiness and joy!
