Noël

When I was a little girl, Christmas was magical. Really, truly, sparkles and all... Magical! There was magic to all our celebrations but Christmas was the very best. I cannot adequately express it.
When I reached my teens, to my despair, the magic started to fade. Like water flowing through my fingers, I could see it disappear and was powerless to hold onto it.

Now, in spite of all my conscious efforts, Christmas has become an ambiguous time. Here and there, I catch little drops of the old magic, whimsical, elusive, short-lived…the lights on a Christmas tree, the wrapping on a present, a Christmas choir, sparkling snow…
But it's also a time of stress. Financial stress, because of the presents. Schedule stress, because of the shopping. Social stress, because of the annual gatherings, where you have one evening to catch up on a year of news. Psychological stress, because the magic never comes back and in the end, you always feel disappointed and let down.
I’m so sad that I now rather fear Christmas instead of being all joyful expectation. Every year, I think about that, and I'm ready to do whatever it takes to bring the magic back. I'm not one who's bothered by social conventions. I could stop shopping, stop making presents (except to Yann), stop going to Christmas get-togethers. I am ready to do anything but I never found a measure that would work.

I think I've finally realized why. There was one person who created that magic. I don't know how he did it, I wish I could reproduce it for my own son, but I can't. My father brought the magic to the celebration. He could create a moment unique and memorable just like a magician pulls a rabbit out of a hat. The day we no longer celebrated with him is the day the magic went away, for all events: birthdays, Easter, Christmas.

Now he's dead. It's October and I once again face the prospect of Christmas. I once again think: "This year MUST be different. This year, I will not be stressed about it, only happy. I will not think money, time and obligations. This year, I will be childlike, I'll find the magic." But the magic is dust, lifted and dispersed by a breeze in a tiny cemetery surrounded by pine trees. Let it go, Bridge. Let it go.