Homesick for the Holidays
Outside of the slightly frosted windows of my Colorado home, a gentle storybook snow is falling. Snowflakes are ever so tenderly dancing their way through the air. The cloud looms above the earth painted with the softest strokes of gray, hinting at an oncoming storm. Yet there is no fear in these clouds and the world is comforted by their woolen blanket in the sky. Around me, the exuberant chaos of the holidays. My grandmother, Nana, is in the kitchen, her home for the holidays. She timelessly stands mixing and bustling to make the hundreds of little gingerbread men and women she graces our family with every year. Every Christmas my entire life, she rolls the dough with the same rolling pin her mother used and her mother before her, her elegant hands strong but caring for their task. With every cut she brings forth a cookie life, she wastes not and re-rolls the excess dough until every single bit, except those little bits snatched by my mother, is made into a militia of molasses. Once baked, they rest to cool as my nana whips the powdered sugar and milk to dress the cookies. Each and every cookie is dressed to perfection, with two white eyes, sleeves, three little dotted buttons, and pants drawn in simple white frosted lines. They assume a life of their own, unknown to them, filled with fondness and nostalgia. They are crunchy on the outside but the inside is a winter blend of molasses, cinnamon, ginger, and love. The simple sweets are then individually placed in small plastic bags and each and every one tied with pieces of red yarn, carefully folded into a bow, then placed in baskets around the house so we might never have to look too far for one. My grandfather, Baba, sits stately in this chair pouring over a novel, occasionally drifting off, and watching the family of his creation with joyful eyes. As I watch he motions for me to come closer and sit in his lap. Knowing every one of these moments is precious. I oblige and am blessed with the strongest truth in my life, whispering in every hug, “did you know your baba loves you?”. Looking through the wooden and glass French doors I can see my brother, father, uncle, and great-uncle playing cards. My father smiles through his white winter beard and we rest comfortably in the soul spark we share. Christmas is our holiday, “Clark” and “Clarkette”. My mother bustles, as always, engaging every member of the family in comforting conversation, reflections of the year, years before, dreams, and everything in between. The faint pink on her cheeks says she is happy and whole. My sister, the owner of the biggest heart and softest soul I know, is resting happily on the red couch, reading, observing, holding, listening, and existing perfectly as she always does. The tree, oh the tree, cut down by my father and me, sparkles through the glass, reflecting every so gently its glow around the room. Its simple pine and white lights are a reflection of the snow on the pines just outside. The presents resting beneath its limbs wait in anticipation for the following morning when they will be ripped open to reveal just what gifts lie inside. And in this moment, I am perfectly, completely, and wholly joyful, for this is it. The moment I have lived the whole year for and in anticipation of. My home for the holidays, the home for my soul.
