PeonyMagazine

  During my childhood, Christmas arrived fully formed. It showed up bright and loud and certain, like something guaranteed. I woke up in it. I didn’t wonder who paid for what, who planned the day, or how tired anyone might be. I didn’t notice  the quiet work happening before dawn  or the careful decisions made weeks ahead of time. Christmas simply happened to me. My only responsibility was to feel excited. That is the privilege of being young: joy without context. You receive without knowing what it costs. You believe magic exists because someone else is working very hard to make sure you never have to question it. As an adult,  Christmas  feels different, not colder, not worse, just heavier. The warmth is still there, but it shares space with lists and numbers and timing. There are budgets to think about, calendars to juggle, kitchens to manage, and expectations to meet. You start measuring the season not just by what you feel, but by what you’re carrying. The ...

  When I think about Christmas, I don’t first remember the gifts, or the food, or even the tree.  I remember a window, old, wooden, slightly chipped on the corners, and the sock I used to hang there every December. It was one of my father’s long white socks, the kind he wore to work. But in my childhood eyes, that sock was a beacon. A signal. An invitation for magic to stop by.  That window faced the street, just above a small patch of garden my mother kept alive with more hope than gardening skills. Every night leading up to Christmas, I would stare at the window as if it were a portal. That was where Santa would pause, just for a moment, long enough to drop something inside the sock before flying off to someone else’s home. My mother never corrected the geography of my fantasy. She never told me Santa came through chimneys or that stockings were supposed to hang by the fireplace. We had no chimney, and our small home wasn’t built for the traditions I saw in storybooks. ...