When I was small the one thing I remember most about Christmas was the sparkle of it.
The twinkle, the glitter, the glow.
My parents would bring home a Christmas tree and each of us 4 children would get our own box of tinsel. We would gob, and splatter and drag it down the branches.
We would throw it and place it and hide it in the thick, green boughs of our Christmas tree.
Our trees were always fat and thick and rich smelling.
Our lights were big rainbows of color.
My step-mother would open the box of decorations and we would smile and glow with glee. The kids were in charge of the Christmas tree, you see, and it always ended up sparkly and messy.
Happy and rich with color.
There were always entirely too many red ornaments placed in one single clump and it was never orderly or perfect.
It was happiness.
I find myself each year looking for that happy mess. That perfect mix of clump and color.
We would bake cookies and fudge rich with nuts. We would bow our heads at dinner, my eyes were always drawn to our tree. A Christmas tree is one of my earliest memories.
And the feeling I remember is excitement.
Happiness.
On Christmas morning our living room was transformed into a child's dream. stocking and presents both wrapped and unwrapped.
Every year I would get one of these giant dolls with yarn hair and rosey cheeks. It seemed each year the one I got was bigger then the last.
The plastic had a distinctive smell, and it would always be perched on top of the highly stacked gifts.
My breath was always lost on Christmas morning. Our tree seemed taller with the packages littering its feet, like some old queen, dried and done. But still sparkling.
Still towering.
Brittle and fading.
The lights, still lit brightly, as if they were the jewels that adorned her.
This is what I look for every year. This is what I work for.
This,That was never thought about, it was simply done.
By small hands but bigger imaginations.
The magic.
The twinkle.
