Christmastime

December lived differently then—not numbered neatly on a page,but measured by the little thingsthat told us it was getting close.

Every morning, one more decorationappeared upon the calendar wall,and I would count the empty spacesas though they were a thousand miles.

The house grew brighter every night.

Colored lights wound through the branches,their reflections multiplyingin windows black with the early evening,in crystal trees upon the table,in the golden rim of Mother’s bowlwhere painted carolers walked forever,beneath a sky that never changed.

Outside, the snow had buried everything.

It fell so hard that afternoonthe neighbor’s house disappeared,as we stood pressed against the glassconvinced the whole world had been lostbeneath that wonderful white.

By evening it was softer.

Great flakes wandered past the windows,slow enough to follow with your eyes.Far beyond the sleeping housesthunder rolled beneath the cloudsso distant I could almost believe—believe it came from somewhere else entirely,somewhere beyond the edge of townwhere winter kept its secrets,where Christmas never ended.

The stockings lingered by the fire.

None of them looked quite the same:a tree dressed up in colored thread,a smiling Santa trimmed in white,Rudolph singing to the snow,and Clara holding Christmas dreamsbeside a fire that cracked and sighedand painted moving shadowsacross the ceiling.

There was music in another room.

Someone had left the piano playingsoftly enough that I could hearthe spaces in between the notes—the settling house,the burning wood,the wind against the chimney,the little sound an ornament madewhen someone walked too near the tree.

I remember lying underneath it,looking upward through the branches.

From there the room was enormous.

Every bulb became a star.Every ribbon was a road.Tiny houses filled with families.Toy soldiers guarded kingdoms.Angels lived among the highest boughswhere only grown-ups could reach.

And somewhere there were presents,though strangely, looking backward,I remember them the least.

I remember waiting.

I remember believing Decemberwas the longest month God ever made,that snow was something sent for us,that houses slept beneath their lights,that midnight had a different soundwhen only I was listening.

I remember thinking grown-upsmust know everything—where the presents hid,why the dancing candlelight made the room feel older,how the same songs could find their wayback home each winter.

Now years have filled the calendarmore quickly than those little doors.

But sometimes—

when snow moves slowly past a window,when firelight catches something gold,when an old piano plays from far away,and when colored lights are all that’s leftbetween the darkness and the room

I can still see that ceiling through the branches.

I can still see the crystal trees.

Those painted carolers are still walkingbeneath that same sky.

The stockings are still there, waiting.

There are the empty spaces on that calendar.

And for one impossible moment,December is enormous again.

And I am small enough to believethe night might last forever,

and somewhere, just beyond the window,something wonderfulis getting closer.December lived differently then—not numbered neatly on a page,but measured by the little thingsthat told us it was getting close.

Every morning, one more decorationappeared upon the calendar wall,and I would count the empty spacesas though they were a thousand miles.

The house grew brighter every night.

Colored lights wound through the branches,their reflections multiplyingin windows black with the early evening,in crystal trees upon the table,in the golden rim of Mother’s bowlwhere painted carolers walked forever,beneath a sky that never changed.

Outside, the snow had buried everything.

It fell so hard that afternoonthe neighbor’s house disappeared,as we stood pressed against the glassconvinced the whole world had been lostbeneath that wonderful white.

By evening it was softer.

Great flakes wandered past the windows,slow enough to follow with your eyes.Far beyond the sleeping housesthunder rolled beneath the cloudsso distant I could almost believe—believe it came from somewhere else entirely,somewhere beyond the edge of townwhere winter kept its secrets,where Christmas never ended.

The stockings lingered by the fire.

None of them looked quite the same:a tree dressed up in colored thread,a smiling Santa trimmed in white,Rudolph singing to the snow,and Clara holding Christmas dreamsbeside a fire that cracked and sighedand painted moving shadowsacross the ceiling.

There was music in another room.

Someone had left the piano playingsoftly enough that I could hearthe spaces in between the notes—the settling house,the burning wood,the wind against the chimney,the little sound an ornament madewhen someone walked too near the tree.

I remember lying underneath it,looking upward through the branches.

From there the room was enormous.

Every bulb became a star.Every ribbon was a road.Tiny houses filled with families.Toy soldiers guarded kingdoms.Angels lived among the highest boughswhere only grown-ups could reach.

And somewhere there were presents,though strangely, looking backward,I remember them the least.

I remember waiting.

I remember believing Decemberwas the longest month God ever made,that snow was something sent for us,that houses slept beneath their lights,that midnight had a different soundwhen only I was listening.

I remember thinking grown-upsmust know everything—where the presents hid,why the dancing candlelight made the room feel older,how the same songs could find their wayback home each winter.

Now years have filled the calendarmore quickly than those little doors.

But sometimes—

when snow moves slowly past a window,when firelight catches something gold,when an old piano plays from far away,and when colored lights are all that’s leftbetween the darkness and the room

I can still see that ceiling through the branches.

I can still see the crystal trees.

Those painted carolers are still walkingbeneath that same sky.

The stockings are still there, waiting.

There are the empty spaces on that calendar.

And for one impossible moment,December is enormous again.

And I am small enough to believethe night might last forever,

and somewhere, just beyond the window,something wonderfulis getting closer.storgy.com/u/srowan/christmastime/