The Magic of Christmas

By KCY

Today, I took my son and daughter for their pictures with Santa. After waiting in line for one hour, it was our turn. As my daughter sat on Santa’s lap, smiling up at him, and my son scrunched up his face and wailed, I wondered if they would remember today. If they would file this day into their memory boxes labelled “Christmas.”

Probably not.

I don’t have many childhood Christmas memories. I don’t ever remember sitting on Santa’s lap and taking a picture, even though the polaroid pictures prove otherwise.

I don’t remember the myriad of Christmas mornings, except for the last Christmas I spent with my mom and dad and sister in the Bronx before my parents divorced.

I was eight. It was snowing and cold outside but our apartment was warm from the heater being on high. On that Christmas morning, my sister and I ran to the living room in our t-shirts and underwear to our small, two-foot fake Christmas tree. It was atop the end table next to our couch. Underneath it, on the floor, were the wrapped presents my grandmother sent us every year from San Francisco. The brightly colored packages weren’t what caught my eye. What captured my attention was the big girl bike next to them. It was white with purple hand grips and purple wheels. It was so beautiful, I was convinced it must’ve been on the cover of the Toys R Us catalogue. And no training wheels! I prayed the tag would say my name, and it did. From Santa. My parents came out at that moment. When my dad saw me gazing at the bike, his expressive face lit up with a smile, and my mom hugged me.

“Santa really knew what you wanted,” she said, “Merry Christmas.”

We spent the morning opening presents, then we ate breakfast while it snowed outside.

The next October, my sister, mom and I left the Bronx and my dad.

I don’t remember any Christmases after that one, and I don’t know why. Because, it’s not that I didn’t celebrate Christmas with my mom and her extended family. We did. I just don’t remember.

Most people would’ve expected me to block out that Christmas. Some say, you suppress memories associated with bad circumstances, like divorce.

But, it’s the only one I remember.

Don’t cry for me and that I didn’t have any more Christmases with both my mom and dad. Because I’m not crying. I’m smiling. I’m smiling because I’m happy I can still remember and feel that feeling I felt that Christmas morning.