WHEN CHRISTMAS COMES
I don’t want a lot for Christmas
There is just one thing I need
I don’t care about the presents
Underneath¹ the Christmas tree
—“All I Want for Christmas Is You”
My mother added a leaf to her tiny wooden table, making it almost family-sized for theday. With a few simple decorations, the table became the festive² centerpiece, along with aCharlie Brown-ish tree, of an otherwise makeshift furnished living room in the run-downhouse where the two of us lived. Despite our circumstances, my mother wanted us to havea “wonderful life.”
The days leading up to Christmas were an event. My mother always kept an Adventcalendar. We would open a new flap each day. I’d read the portion of a story or a poemprinted there, and she would give me the chocolates hidden inside. The mulled wine shemade camouflaged³ the dankness of the house with a warm spicy⁴ aroma⁵. I was well awarewe didn’t have much money, so while I never really anticipated getting any extravagantpresents or popular toys, I loved that we’d make an effort to get into the spirit and do whatwe could to create an ambiance of joy and jubilance. We’d clean up, we’d decorate, and ofcourse we would sing. Christmas carols sung in my mother’s operatic voice brought afeeling of spaciousness⁶ to our cramped⁷ daily existence.
Mother wasn’t much of a cook, but for Christmas dinner she tried—we both tried. Wetried to put all the trauma⁸ and drama that infected the rest of our lives on hold and justhave a peaceful Christmas meal. Too much to ask? I think not. I was a child craving⁹ achildhood, in a house filled with disappointment and pain.

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