My Christmas

I looked out the window. Snow covered every tree, every spot in my neighborhood. I was happy. It was Christmas. I wondered what the day would be like, but nothing came to mind...

A moment later, I heard the door slam and... at the threshold of my room stood a tall, green pine tree, smelling of the forest and reminding me of pleasant events. My dad looked at me and pulled me away from the somewhat gray reality with the words, "What are you looking at?! Decorate the tree!" He brought me the baubles, some of which were broken. I didn't feel sorry for them, though, because they had been through so much... they were bound to break eventually. As usual, my parents were busy with something, so I, even though I was ordered to do something—(I usually don't like doing anything on orders)—eagerly began decorating it. Although other families treat decorating the tree as an additional chore, I consider it a holiday. I imagine that one day, just as I decorate it, a tree like that will illuminate my path in the darkness of life and show me a better path, one that will lead me to where I wanted to be. I sat down on the bed and, after figuring out where the tree would be placed, got to work... I decorated it with plain colored strings and baubles—though it wasn't the most elaborate tree—it looked beautiful. I also hung a ginger root on it, adorned with a bow in honor of Mother Earth. This might seem strange, but a Christmas tree has always reminded me of the white magic festival of Samhain, where people tied red and white ribbons to the top of the tree, caught them, and danced around them, rejoicing in the birth of the Lord. I don't do anything like that, but I simply enjoy thinking about it, imagining the beauty of winter, fields covered in snow, and the glowing lights representing stars, as if they were reflecting off the earth onto the shimmering white snow. It looks especially beautiful at night. After decorating the tree, I prepared to go to Grandma and Grandpa's... The holiday promised to be wonderful: it's my favorite holiday of the year. I always had fond memories of them... During the drive, I fell asleep in the car and dreamed of our good old Christmas... Or rather, dreams of a perfect Christmas. I patiently waited for my siblings at my grandmother's, especially my cousin, Dominika, who always tried to cheer me up in difficult times. When she arrived, the whole family waited for the other guests, while we secretly—yes, that's the right word—sneaked away at the sweets hanging uselessly from the tree. It was fun. And then we simply searched for the presents Santa had hidden from us. That was what mattered most as children. We always caught our grandfather dressing up as him "instead" of the real one, and then we dressed up ourselves. My parents called us to the table. To my left lay a slightly arched tablecloth—probably because of the hay beneath it. Grandma lit a red candle, and we began the prayer. There were 12 dishes on the table. I always wondered why 12 and came to the conclusion that they could symbolize the 12 months: you have to try something good from each one.However, we could never eat that many – it was probably because some months were so dull. Everyone shared the Christmas wafer and exchanged heartfelt wishes. Among the children, these were in verse, straight from hearts, but they still sounded like they weren't – they were said quickly, with shame. And so the whole family celebrated at the table, eating a variety of dishes and talking about various topics. We didn't sing Christmas carols. Sure, we sang one, two, sometimes even five, but no one had the patience to listen to a group of people who had their ears stepped on by an elephant, so the occasion ended as quickly as it suddenly began. Eventually, two people remained, and they also finished later. Then it was time for presents – everyone was happy, but deep down, they preferred to receive something from God – power, wisdom, love, a sense of security. Everyone went to bed, while for Dominika and me, the most wonderful thing was just beginning. Mika didn't know it yet, but that didn't matter; I wanted to surprise her. That night, around 11 p.m., I went to her bed where she was sleeping and woke her up. I asked her to get up and dress warmly. At first, she protested and was very reluctant, but eventually, obediently, she got up and dressed. We were very quiet, so as not to wake the rest of the family. So we went outside the building and I led her a little further away from the building—but not too far, to be safe and ready to escape any threat. It was a dark, abandoned place; no one lived there, no one was there, the wind blew between the boards, but it was still warm and cozy. I lit a candle. The room brightened, but we felt much safer among the flames. We scratched off the scabs, mine on my arm, and Egg's on his, and blood began to flow gently from them. We rubbed the wounds together, and that's how we became blood sisters. We became blood brothers. I felt good about it. I saw that Dominika was feeling wonderful too. We looked at each other wordlessly. It was as if I were talking to her without their help. But finally, I spoke up and we talked about life, that even though it would be hard, each of us would support the other and help her in her time of need, that we would live together in a house in the forest, near a waterfall and a stream with our families, and nothing would tear us apart, and every night we would go out together, bathe under the cascade, splash around, and fool around. These were our shared plans, dreams, in which we pinned all our hopes... That we would be together forever. Later, we even laughed about something. I stared hopefully, together with Miśka, into the candle flame, but a voice seemed to tell me, "This will pass, this will pass." He whispered, but I tried not to listen. "This will never come back," he said. So we blew out the candles with two fingers—one from each hand, clasped in a single, powerful embrace—and went home. We went to bed, but we were still thinking about it.I couldn't sleep, so I went to Dominika's. She wasn't sleeping either. I crawled under the covers and we lay next to each other, cuddled in a very tight embrace of brotherly love. That's how we fell asleep. And in the morning, no one knew what had happened that night. We made a souvenir from carp bones, tying them on an elastic band and carrying them around our necks, our arms, or with us. At family breakfast, we kept smiling at each other so knowingly that others looked at us suspiciously. We didn't care. We were happy together, being together – as if it were the last day of our lives. My parents' voice woke me up: "Nina, get up, we're already here." So I did. I got up, and Christmas at Grandma's began again (at least for me). In a completely different house, a completely different place, a different time. Without Dominika. For several years now, she's been spending Christmas in Belgium, with her other grandmother. I feel lonely without her. To the right of Grandma's new house was a playground with only one broken monkey bars, and nearby sat some drunks. Nearby, a mentally ill child walked with her disabled mother. This old, beautiful place had been turned into hell – by the move. The vow was broken. I went outside to look at the sky. There were few stars, so I lay down in the snow to gaze at them. Even though it was very cold, I felt only shivers – warm, pleasant shivers that reminded me of that wonderful moment when we sat by the candlelight. I felt Dominika's presence. Mom told me to go home or I'd catch a cold. I got up and looked at the sky again. Behind me was a shooting star, and I thought about Miśka. I returned home and sat by the candlelight. Beata Kozidrak's song was playing on the radio: "(...)The same moment will never find us again." I looked into the candle flame. It burned slowly, just like the other one. Perhaps Dominika was also staring at the candle at that same moment—just like me? I didn't know. I stared at the candle for a moment longer, then closed my eyes, and I felt a tear roll down my cheek—whether of happiness or sadness, I didn't know. It fell of its own accord. I looked at the candle again, wondering if those moments would return—maybe, maybe not. But I will always hold onto hope, and it will never abandon me, that those moments will return with even greater joy and experience than before. And another tear fell from my eyes...a tear of hope. I looked at my family. They were filled with deep feelings, though imperceptible to the naked eye, yet upon closer inspection, they were truly so. Because Christmas meant something different to each of us: for Grandma it meant the fact that she could show off her preparation of dishes that the whole family could sit down to enjoy together, for others it meant sharing the Christmas wafer, where everyone could give something from the bottom of their heart, wishes – for which they didn't have to pay, but still gave them to everyone, for others Christmas meant common prayer,where we pray to God together and become one. For others, it was unwrapping presents. But for me...for me, Christmas is an event where the whole family gets together to pray together, share food, unwrap gifts, share the Christmas wafer, and be...be together, with each other.