When I was a kid, we lived about 5 hours from both my maternal and paternal grandparents. Although I have more memories on the maternal side (remarkably, I had even *more* cousins on that side), I have really fond, strong memories of my Mahoney aunts forcing us to go caroling on the deep snow on Christmas Eve. And then I would wake up super early on Christmas morning, look out the window of the second story bedroom where I sometimes drew the straw of sleeping on a rollaway bed with rustly (probably something intended to be waterproof?) material under the sheets. The magical, heavy snow glistened under the streetlights, and then again in the early morning sun.
I have no photos, but the one I've shared here is close to evoking a similar feeling in my chest.
So, this morning, Christmas morning, I woke up at about 4:20, after a nightmare that we moved back into the apartment where we lived in 1996. (Sorry landlord Andre, it was fine for 1996, and super cheap - thank you.) For 30 minutes, I tried all my brain emptying techniques, but could not go back to sleep.
Was it Christmas excitement? Was it my full bladder? Was it my (TMI alert) metamucil-ed guts doing what they do? Was it some work and bike captain things that I need to do, starting to creep in?
I got up, came into the dark living room, and plugged in the tree, which temporarily brings me the same feeling of comfort, peace, and wonder as I had circa 1975, from a small, kid-stuffed bedroom on Emmons Street in Michigan. ☃️❄🎄❄
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