The houses at the bottom of my lane are very similar to the
one in which I lived until I was eleven. And tonight several of them had their
curtains open so I could see the Christmas trees, the hanging decorations, and
the little lights which embroidered the dense green foliage or framed the door
and window apertures. It took me back to the time when I would walk out of a dark
December evening just to savour the little shows of light, colour and gaiety
which enhanced the growing fever of Christmas. The hanging decorations are more
glitzy and sophisticated now, and the lights shimmer rather than flash, but
otherwise it’s pretty much the same.
Christmas was the pinnacle of the year for me, the time
which contained the most magical hours – the last few on Christmas Eve and the
first few on Christmas morning. Even the two words Christmas and Eve carried a
sublime resonance that a whole book full of other words could never hope to
match.
So what should this post be about? Lost childhood? The cares
which come with growing up to swamp the best of preoccupations? The shortness
of life, maybe? It’s all too obvious, really. Maybe it’s just about coming full
circle.
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