26 December 2015
There is something wonderfully magical about a glittering Christmas tree. As I sit here in the late evening hours, in front of the tree, on the floor of my study, looking at the tree and all of our ornaments, I feel the magic of Christmas surrounding me.
The ornaments are from all over. Alaska, from my parents’ several visits, Honduras, Hawaii, Canada, London, San Francisco, San Diego from ours, ornaments I’ve had since I was a child, and ornaments I bought more recently. Ornaments that remind me of projects I did, like the Santa I got from Wolfe Street after we bought it but before we tore the buildings down. Bones for each of my three dogs, two long-gone but never forgotten. A cookie ornament from our trip to Big Cedar Lodge one year, that honestly looks good enough to to eat. A while satin dove made many moons ago by a neighbor from my hometown, also long gone but never forgotten. Two Eiffel Towers, neither from Paris, but one bought when Paris was yet a dream and one bought after Paris was a fond and distinct memory. A small frog that is always the last ornament to come off, as it’s so tiny it’s hard to find in the green. A macaroni angel with 1.5 wings, the other wing having been a tragic accident by one of said former dogs. A skater, made of ceramic, dated the year my Sweetie graduated high school, when I was about 11 myself. And atop, still the same all these many years later, an angel given to me my first Christmas as being a married girl of 19, still kept because I believe she is beautiful. She, and a few other ornaments, have been my stalwart companions all of these years. They remain so today.
The magic of the tree is in the memories, the glittering lights, the new and old, the skirt around the base, the beauty to behold. It has held so many gifts under its branches. So many fun times have been had by opening those gifts over the years. So many more to come.
Every year, when I put away the ornaments, the nutcrackers carefully wrapped in tissue paper, the tree in its bag in the attic, I nearly cry, knowing that I’ll miss them for 48 weeks, not sure if I will see them again. The future is, after all, never guaranteed.
So many friends I have who are in danger, in bad health, in sorry and sadness. So many lost souls just hoping for a miracle. A family member in the hospital this season, unsure of the outcome of his illness, me unsure of how this may change the fun family we have. You just never know. We didn’t in 2002. We weren’t sure of the future, but we certainly hoped for another. Like the Journey song, just hoping for one more time.
I hope the magic of this season carries me through this coming year. I hope to see my ornaments and nutcrackers, old friends that they are, next Thanksgiving weekend. So many things will change between now and then. I only hope that the magic remains. For, with magic, anything is possible.