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Christmastime
The cold is more than my legs, sheathed only in tights beneath my dress, can bear. I feel my nose and cheeks get rosier with the kiss of the night wind that sends the corners of my coat flapping. My heels click clock along the sidewalk as I round the corner. The velvety night sky flecked with snow disappears, as the heavy doors of a great theatre open, flooding the stairs with yellow light. I step inside. There in that cozy yellow light, I am greeted by the warmth of an excited crowd – a crowd that smells heavily of perfume – murmuring with polite Christmas cheer and finding seats in busy whispers.
The inside of the performance hall is buzzing with anticipation. The red velvet lining the walls and seats gives the place a richness that feels antique and expensive. My heels pad along the plush carpet as I glance at my ticket and scan the rows for my seat. I scoot my way into the middle of a row, where I warmly nestle in and open my program – like any good student and theatre goer I always read mine cover to cover. The lights dim, and the strings play, as the stage sparkles to life, and I am whisked away … Sometimes I am the one onstage and sometimes I am not. I like it both ways; either way, I’m dreaming of getting cookies and hot chocolate after. Speaking of hot chocolate, I’m about as warm as a mug of it.
It is funny, because Christmas shows are nothing new. Everyone knows the songs they are about to hear, the warmth they will experience, the red and green and gold they will see. But the familiarity of this outing feels like childhood. It makes me think of candlelight and cinnamon. My dad took my sister and I to see the Nutcracker every year. My grandma always bought me a new dress for the annual occasion. My mom tried to curl my stubborn hair, which fell in flat wisps moments later – but it stayed for the pictures. I didn’t really know how to smile for the camera then (so I am shown with photo evidence of our annual pose in front our Christmas tree). But I felt beautiful, and that I think is what counts. I felt special that my dad would want to take us to eat dinner at a hotel and have a special night with us. Maybe that is why I love Christmas concerts so much.
The curtain comes down and the candlelight disappears, as lights rise on the house and the room breaks back into a gentle murmur of Christmas greetings. Sweet choral voices resound in my memory and I realize I’ll be humming Christmas hymns all night long. I step back through the heavy doors, into the cold that sends shivers down my legs and turns my breath into puffs of fog. Quickly as my heels will permit, I get into a heated car – I love the smell of heat – to drive back home down empty streets silenced with Christmas eve. The city lights that shine year-round have already given the downtown a natural glowing spirit of the season. But the red, green, and gold street lights shine kinder tonight, and the snow falls lighter, as if to make my journey more intimate. I roll down my window just slightly, so I can feel the crisp wind on my face, while my body stays toasty inside my Honda sized sauna. The drive is easy in the solace of this winter night.
A few gentle turns later, I pull into my familiar driveway where twinkling Christmas lights grace the bushes. I fiddle with the lock on our old wooden door and try to silence the jingling wreath when it opens. Then I tip toe to my bedroom to untangle the hairspray I’ve hopelessly matted into my hair. I lean on my bed and stare at the shiny presents piled under my tiny Christmas tree, imagining what everyone’s faces will look like when they open them. I tip the snow globe on my book shelf, so I can watch it swirl in the dim light while I pull on pajamas, and crawl into my bed. I think of candles and dancers and Christmas choirs and snow, as I fall asleep under the soft glow of the Christmas lights tacked into the crevices of my quaint attic room.