And Christmas was the sweet breath of sleeping children, and the hush of the Eve as presents were softly placed under the tree.
Christmas was the knot of excitement upon waking, the sheer bliss on their faces, the squeals, and their joy being as complete as mine.
Christmas was the chopping of potatoes, the stuffing of a bird, and the snapping of beans.
Christmas was the sore throat, the sore bones, and the sore head all mashed together like a sludgy gravy across the long days.
Christmas was the over-cooked turkey, the wrong ham, the bitter fruit, and the forgotten salad on the table.
Christmas was the drunkenness of plum pudding, the absurdity of trifle, the audacity of the cheese platter, and the sanctity of Christmas cake.
Christmas was the importance of family, the visit of dear ones, and the missing of missed ones.
Christmas was the nostalgia for better days, the remembering of sadder days, and then a gentle sense of levelling back to where we began.
Christmas was the reflection on the tragic, the thoughts for the lonely, and the aching for troubled hearts all over the earth.
Christmas was the burn of indigestion, the sink-full of dishes, and the precarious puzzle of leftovers in the fridge.
Christmas was the stillness of the breath taken, the stopping of trying to please everyone, the chance for blinking naps on the couch.
Christmas was the noisy toys, the treasured toys, the scattered toys, and the patience of a father teaching his children to ride their first bikes.
Christmas was the anger of neighbours, the short fuse between spouses, and the tensions all fizzing up like a shaken bottle of apple cider.
Christmas was the gestures of forgiveness, the mending of walls, and the touching of hands in the silence.
Christmas was the cute giggly dinosaur boy, the kissing of his warm cheeks, and the inhaling of every drop of innocence.
Christmas was the broken plates, the broken lives, the realisation that we’re nowhere closer to where we want to be, and the wondering if we’ll ever get there.
Christmas was the crashing down of another year, the epiphany of reality, the epic proportions of our battle, and the secret life we tuck away at night.
Christmas was the twinkle of fairy lights on trees, and the wish that they would adorn our hearts and set us alight with fragments of hope.
And Christmas was the hint of a promise, the conspiracy to endure, the harbinger of courage, and the whisper of a sunrise urging the fresh possibility of a new day.