It’s scorching; the curtains
douse the sun streaming in through the sliding doors. I pour an iced-coffee to
stem my headache and make sure the boys have water nearby. Husband takes a gulp
of his chilled apple cider, and then places it in the condensation puddle.
The room is filled with
Christmas music overflowing with joy, hope and that thrill of expectation. Husband
sets up the tree as excited as our young boys to be finally decorating it.
I’m wrapped in twinkle lights
trying to calculate how much of each string needs to go on branches weaving up
to the top.
Taking out the Christmas
decorations one by one, carefully unwrapping them and hoping that the fragile
ones don’t drop onto the tiles from over eager four-year-old bouncing to help.
One decoration is so old I can’t remember when I got it, a gift from a lifetime
ago. Stars cut out of cardboard with coloured paper glued over top from our first
Christmas at Rumginae. We didn’t have our decorations or even a tree. A
cinnamon wood angel that fills the house with a scent that’s warm and filled
with mouth-watering promises. Decorations that come from all over the world a
reminder that Christmas is celebrated everywhere in different ways. Mary,
Joseph and baby Jesus made out of wooden clothes pegs, a memento of our first
Christmas in tropical Cairns.
Some decorations didn’t quite
survive the year in their box—or the travel—and need to be super glued before
being perched on their branch. I have my favourites: The white and blue ceramic
heart that I picked up one shopping trip and couldn’t put down again, the
brightly painted Balinese birds that colour the tree. Husband took the boys
shopping today and they are eager to add their Christmas decoration choices to
the tree; a silver sleigh and campervan complete with evergreen tree sprinkled
with snow.
Curious six-year old wants to
know when the presents will start arriving now that we have the tree up. The
last gingerbread is halved between two little mouths, a cry of, ‘Mine’s bigger
than yours,’ breaks the spell of generosity. Thankfully there’s no scuffle.
I sink gratefully into the couch,
propping my wrapped ankle up on the stool. The lights get plugged in, the
cheery glow of coloured bulbs reflects off the shiny decorations. We sit for a
moment in the peace before antsy four-year old switches the calm lights to a strobing
flicker. From now on the air will be charged with secrets and whispers, giggles
behind closed doors and barely contained excitement.
It’s almost Christmas…
