I remember cranberry staining my fingers; the needle seemed so large as I carefully centered it to pierce each bright berry, followed by creamy white kernals of popcorn. The popcorn often breaking in two and falling onto my lap, where greedily I would pluck them up and contentedly chew on their fractured forms. The hint of cranberry juice on my tongue as I licked my fingers clean before trying again with another kernal.
I remember cartoons playing before us with brightly colored scenes, all red, green, silver and gold as the characters we knew and loved so well did their remembered movements across the screen. The nostalgia of it all sinking in deep, as warming to the soul as hot chocolate after a snow-filled day of sledding.
I remember those garlands we made wrapping around our tree: the heady green scent of the pine entertwined with the sawdust from it's freshly-cut trunk. Those strands of red, red berries and fluffy white popcorn that would be hung outside for the birds once the holidays were over and done.
I remember laying in bed, so excited for Santa to come, yet my eyes heavy with sleep the moment my head touched the pillow: my security blanket firmly grasped in hand, it's warm woolen scent filling my nose as I drifted off to sleep, my dreams filled with prancing horses and hopes that Santa would bring me new books.
I remember the excitement of stockings, filled with oranges and peppermint sticks and, one year, pretty new barrettes; my brother playing with new Matchbox cars and zooming them around the floor.
I remember the year when the fantasy broke, the truth about Santa told to me by another child, and my mother sadly confirming it as truth. I remember how hard it was to keep pretending so my brother could enjoy the magic for one more year.
And through those years, new strands of cranberry red and the popcorn white bore silent witness to it all.
I miss those days, or at least I think I do. Many of those holidays have blurred over the years, so who can say for sure. I remember a lot of pain and loneliness around my childhood; things I would rather not go through again. But Christmas... I think I would love to have just one childhood Christmas again.
As we decorate our tree this year I will hang garlands of cranberry glory and popcorn puff: not strung by my hands, but rather fabricated in some far off country before crossing ocean, mountains and desert to reach my Christmas tree.
I wonder if it will bring memories of Christmases long past, or will it be just another gaudy decoration for a plastic tree. The freshly cut pine of my youth now a fabricated scent trying, in vain I think, to be reminiscent of trees long ago
My wish for this year?
More memories from my childhood, please. Even if they would best be left alone. Just one dream-filled night of Christmases past, my brother and I still with heads filled with possibilities and anticipation. Those days I would love to recapture. If it isn't asking too much, maybe dreams of summers running free, swimming at the river, the scent of hot pine sap as the temperatures climb. The sound of the wind in the trees around me and the scent of woodsmoke in the air as autumn comes around.
How precious those times are, now that I am growing older. Why couldn't I have recognized that back then? I don't believe that youth is wasted on the young, for only the young are carefree enough to openly wonder and hope and dream where so many possibilities are open. I warm myself in the memories of standing by the woodstove, carefully toasting homemade bread with it's cheerful warmth. I remember so much of the good, as well as the bad- how I wish I could have told that younger me that the good will always balance out in the end.
But she is there and I am here, and the blur of time and forgotten memories lie between who I was and who I now am.
And I am grateful, so very grateful, for who I am and to finally know my worth.
But still, Dearest Santa, if you read the letter of this good little girl now all grown up- would one Christmas dream be alright?
