by sinead armstrong
i would always shudder
at the thought of christmas—
not from the cold
but from the way it swallowed me whole.
when i was seven,
christmas consumed my being
it brought tears to my eyes
and laughter to my face.
snow fell and held its breath on the ground,
icicles crystalling every window—
a quiet christening
the whole world seemed to feel.
as the trees shed their leaves,
i knew what awaited me in the days to come—
the quiet melancholy of a white christmas,
waiting behind the door
only a december air could open.
a flake, etched by snow
began its elegant dance toward christmas,
as if the world itself were rehearsing
for that single day.
i felt like the trees, too.
months peeling from me one by one,
falling at my feet
as if by god’s behest.
all of them drifting toward the same place—
the stillness,
the shimmer,
the heavy hush
of christmas.
and i always knew what was coming.
the table dressed in its winter best,
the fat turkey my mother coaxed to glory,
drinks sprawled across the cloth
like a constellation,
and the soft hum of family chatter
warming the room.
christmas was the one time
my family defined family.
it was like holding hands
and singing carols door to door—
though we never did that.
still, i envied those who did.
sarah next door would knock,
her mother and father at her side,
a smile stretching ear to ear
as she sang like she belonged
to something bigger.
i drank it in,
thinking quietly,
i wish we could do that.
but when the door clicked shut
and i turned around,
there was my own family
waiting at the table—
and suddenly,
it was christmas all over again.
the most exciting part
was always the presents.
this was the big day.
the moment i’d waited for all year.
through dinner,
a quiet, tangible tension threaded the room.
my brothers and i clung
to the feeling of wrapping paper
against our fingertips.
we could almost hear it tear.
with every spoonful,
every sip,
every word drifting across the table,
my mind ached with a single thought:
a gift waiting to be unwrapped.
something i couldn’t wait
to wrestle from its tightly taped shell.
when the moment finally came,
i opened each present,
and it felt like opening the first one
all over again.
i looked up,
my mother’s joy mirroring mine,
our smiles clasping hands
as surely as fingers ever could.
a new toy,
a new set,
a new phone i was too young for—
each gift spelling out
something simple,
something whole,
something definite:
family.