Christmas past

Christmas had flavour then, it had an aroma, a magical essence of festivity. It had something to do with the smell of baking cakes in mom's rusted oven. The ornaments were simple, ribbons of coloured paper strung along the ceiling, a few clusters of balloons at strategic corners. My mother's fir tree in an old tin pot stood in the corner, brightly done up with gold and silver strings, a big star ceremoniously stuck at the top of the tree. Christmas cards arrived daily, from relatives and friends and well-wishers. My brother and I would collect the ones bearing our names, a childish competition to see who receives more.

I was, as a child, even more gullible, lead hither thither by an elder brother. I believed fervently in Santa Claus, but my brother put an end to that. 'There is no Santa Claus, it's only mom and dad pretending' . And before I could recover, 'Let's look for the gifts while they are gone'. And so my innocence ended at the tender age of 5 years. I learnt to deceive too. 'Look, mother! Santa got me exactly what I wanted'.

I did not know those Christmases represented phases of my life. Because every year, there were changes. Some were subtle, some struck closer to home. You could tell from the decorations how progress was happening. Cards are passe, real trees replaced by bigger, greener plastics. You could see how dear ones slowly disappeared from Christmases, some died of diseases, some in accidents. I remember a new year's eve spent mourning an uncle. The elders cried, we children huddled together, uncertain what to do when New Year arrived.

Every year, a little more numb,a little more pain, a little more smarter, a little more cynical, a little more adult. I mourn the death of childhood, the glee of being alive. Our worries were so small then, and our joys were so simple. Everyday was an occasion, Christmas and New Year were only the icing on the cake.

(Lungleng thut, inspired by Caliopia's post).