December 25

The lights around the tree used to move between colors - casting bough shadows on the ceiling. Tonight they glow a steady, constant, icey white.
After a day of wrapping paper, homemade treats, and what makes a house a home... I lay down under a perfectly clear night sky.
And feel less alone.
Light in the darkness.
This year I flew across the country and spent Christmas as an only child. As a consolation, my parents offered to do whatever I wanted to do all day long. Too heartbroken to leave the house or see anyone, I quietly rested in an echo chamber of Christmases past. Still, soaking up this strange new thing.
The theme of my December has been believing in Christmas miracles. Hoping and praying that magic  could come true.
I'm not really sure what magic is, other than having a tiny place in a constantly spinning universe. A way to see the stars and have cold night air sting the airway.
I know that others see things differently. They keep their blinds closed, locked into a den of their own definition of the universe.
I watch light.
My chest aches.
After candle-lit Silent Night, I opened Christmas Eve pajamas. And burst into lonesome tears. For the first time, I left nothing by the fireplace for Santa. No birthday cake for Jesus. Morning came, ready or not, and Christmas without them came and went.

Tonight my dreams are dormant. My place is less than whole in each world. My heart is heavy. The world spins on. The stars sparkle. The tree glows.

Some moments are unrecoverable. Since September, that reality is palpable. With heavy eyes, I release today to the past.