The Whitest Christmas Ever

I can still remember as a kid tracing lines of frost on the window that day. A few wispy snowflakes came dancing out of a slate-gray sky, magically kissed against the glass and were gone. I pushed closer to see. And then there were more and more, twirling madly out of the twilight. As I watched, the flakes fell faster and my heart welled with an intensity that was clean and pure and intoxicating.

The house smelled of burnt sugar and hot chocolate and pine. That year I made all my gifts, weird little gift boxes with cut-out scenes to hang on the tree. Snips of white paper from my scissors danced down to mingle with bits of popcorn from my sisters’ long chains. We sat together like puppies on the couch, taking turns to run to the window for weather reports.

A white Christmas many years later in Seattle, 2008

As the snow began to thicken so did my mother’s agitation grow. She slammed the oven on the Christmas bun, adjusted her glasses, and peered through the darkening sky to gauge the snow’s depth. When there was no delineation between the street and the curb, my mother threw down her apron and stood at the window.

We heard the cachunkachunking of chains from a long way off. A car emerged from the swirling whiteness, carving fresh dents upon the landscape that were filled almost as soon as they were made. As it turned into the drive, we could see white knuckles between swipes of the flapping wipers.

And then he was in! Stomping his feet, setting down packages, tipping the snow off the brimmed hat he wore in those days. My father’s cheeks were red and his brown eyes glowed behind his snow-flecked glasses as he rubbed his hands. We gathered around him and then – just then – that’s when Christmas began.

Years later our holiday season is still punctuated by the Christmas bun, a wreath bread we gather around after opening presents on Christmas morning. It’s made with love and so many memories. But while these days I delight in watching my own family’s eyes light up at the unveiling of the festive bread, I sometimes see in my mind’s eye the silhouette of a boy reflected in the glass on that whitest of Christmases. And as I watch him trace the frost and see the snowflakes dance again, I feel that old magic creep in.

Here’s hoping you catch a little of the magic this year!