Tuesday, December 26, 2006
in the spirit of Christmas...
It was a strange figure -- like a child: yet not so like a child as like an old man, viewed through some supernatural medium, which gave him the appearance of having receded from the view, and being diminished to a child's proportions. Its hair, which hung about its neck and down its back, was white as if with age; and yet the face had not a wrinkle in it, and the tenderest bloom was on the skin.
I can remember, seemingly, an endless line of Christmas days. I remember the silence as I tiptoed downstairs in the reddish glow of early morning in our Texas country home, before anyone else was awake. I remember the magic of it all, the mystery, the Church plays and the pageants. I remember the smell of coffee and bacon later in the morning, as the stockings were emptied on to the floor by the fireplace. I remember the Christmas day we played Space Invaders for sixteen hours. I remember family filling our house for hours and hours. I remember all the adults talking as I quietly played with the joy that Santa had left just for me. I remember all of that as well as I remember it slipping away.
Heaped up on the floor, to form a kind of throne, were turkeys, geese, game, poultry, brawn, great joints of meat, sucking-pigs, long wreaths of sausages, mince-pies, plum-puddings, barrels of oysters, red-hot chestnuts, cherry-cheeked apples, juicy oranges, luscious pears, immense twelfth-cakes, and seething bowls of punch, that made the chamber dim with their delicious steam. In easy state upon this couch, there sat a jolly Giant, glorious to see:, who bore a glowing torch, in shape not unlike Plenty's horn, and held it up, high up, to shed its light...
"Dad!"
"Wha..?"
"Dad! He came!"
These Christmas mornings are filled again with magic. It's a magic of another kind. The lovingly contrived magic that fills the hearts of our loved ones, of our children. We make the myths and remember the past. We feast, in our own way. We make new memories for our family, new traditions, new everything. Our gifts come from far away. They come to us from the south, and from over the sea, all to be opened and looked at and enjoyed here in our Spokane home in the snow. The hearth fire lit all day, cheers our playtime, and dances in our hearts the fires of love among us. Worry and apprehension is abated for a day and we revel in our own company.
It was shrouded in a deep black garment, which concealed its head, its face, its form, and left nothing of it visible save one outstretched hand. But for this it would have been difficult to detach its figure from the night, and separate it from the darkness by which it was surrounded.
It already seems like they're growing up too fast. It was only last year that our oldest was enjoying the simple pleasures of Knights and dragons and only barely reading. This Christmas he has moved on to larger books. He's reading Harry Potter now, interested in science and mathematics. He's going to be older sooner than later, and these magical moments will slip away. Yesterday morning I stood and watched the present, and fought with the future to not come. I held it at bay for just another day, keeping it's dark uncertainties out of sight and mind. I kept it's drift into rationalism away from the imaginations of my children and let them have their dreams, their magic, their day.
I don't know how much our little family will grow over the years, but I do know that it will. There will be many more Christmastimes for our sons and us, and our coming baby. What they will be like, isn't for us to know, but I know that they will be loved by me, from now until I no longer breath.Labels: christmas
