Vignettes of these times flip through my mind like the pages of an old photo album, filled with snapshots whose edges have yellowed with time. Some of the most treasured people in them have died. Some divorced. Some stopped talking to one another. Many of us married into new families with their own traditions. As a result of all of this, I feel very divorced from my past. And any attempt to recreate that past in my own present results in a rather flimsy simulacrum, a plasticized recreation of an exquisite, antique glass ornament.
I hope my children's Christmases are as precious to them as mine were when I was their age. I hope they relish listening to mom and dad bicker about getting to Grandma's house a half hour late. I hope they hear the shouts of their cousins' laughter, their uncles' stories about doing really stupid things when they, as adults, turn their ears toward the past. Part of becoming an adult is realizing that things never stay the same and treasuring those memories lost.
When I think of Christmases past, I often recall my mom reading from this lovely book, The Night before Christmas, illustrated by Gyo Fujikawa.
And to all a good night (or afternoon, whatever;)). ~Alice