*photo: Zuzia

24th of December, a Christmas Eve. Eve which means “the day before”. 7.30am and my mum is already cooking, the sweet smell says so. Somebody used cinnamon, it comes to my mind. I am in my bedroom, pretending I am not woken up yet. Giving a glimpse around me: lovely yellow armchair, a glass table with a newly borrowed book on it, behind a white bookshelf where I notice a small pillow of Christmas gifts wrapped only night before. Messy desk that remembers me about university duties I haven`t done yet.
All right, everything on its place. The stability of subjects illudes me a little by creating an impression that yesterday will be also today, that world hasn`t had time to change yet.

24th of December, the Christmas Eve. To be honest, I am waiting for a heart beat, maybe little sweating, hotter forefront. However, the festivity of 24th of December is not inside me. Let is snow on the radio evokes an image of land covered with snow, which is ultimately only a dream. C`mon, girl, I am telling to myself. Just give yourself time, take it with patience and for sure it will arrive, that butterflies in the stomach. It bothers me slightly, I am trying to figure it out, come here to help me, the voice of my mum rings in my ears, no choice situation.

I don`t feel it is today, my sister mutters while we are laying the table. Guests are to come in two hours. What? I pretend not to have heard what she`s just said although I perfectly know what she means. Well, that Christmas is already here, she adds. I know, honey, I answer. Smoothly moving in #sistermode, I try to convince her that is probably because of her growing up, of the changes she is going through. I don`t find it right to share with her the fact of me missing that feeling for a while. Bring more forks, my mum is getting worried about not having warmed up the beetroot soup yet.
And you, mum? Do you feel Christmas arrived? I decide to ask her, our Last Instance, as I start to be dazzled with no-Christmas mood thirty minutes before the festive dinner.

But then I look at her: she is tired, her eyes tell the truth, she is annoyed with us doing everything slowly, she is lost with her emotions taking power over her and suddenly I understand.

Christmas is when the ones who love you wrap up a small gift for you evenings before 24th. Christmas is when you choose to put cinnamon in your coffee. Christmas is when your mum passes sleepless night to bake a poppyseed cake for you. Christmas is nothing special until you do not choose to make it so.

Zuzia

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