“Ghost of Christmas Past"

 

Dear Readers,

The streets glowed in red, gold, and green hues as the faint scent of roasted chestnuts mingled with the winter air. I would always anticipate this time of year not just for the presents or the feasts, but for the simple joy of setting up our home for Christmas. It wasn’t just a tradition; it was a legacy.

As a child, my parents and I had a ritual. We’d wander through the bustling streets lined with vendors selling decorations and twinkling fairy lights every year. Their eyes would gleam as they picked out the perfect ornaments for the tree. “This one will look just right,” he’d say, holding up a delicate glass angel. Sometimes, we’d stay out late, our footsteps echoing through the quieting streets, finally returning home with bags of treasure baubles, ribbons, and tiny figurines for the crib.

Back home, we’d work tirelessly into the early hours. Dad was meticulous, ensuring every star was perfectly aligned, every light bulb worked, and every piece of the crib reflected the story of hope and renewal. It wasn’t just about decorating a space it was about filling it with love, joy, and memories.

When I became a father, I dreamed of passing this legacy on to my children. I envisioned the laughter and camaraderie of setting up the crib together, the careful selection of ornaments, and the long nights of making our home glow. But life had other plans.

Now, the house sits quieter during the holidays. The lights and ornaments are stored away, untouched. The crib remains a memory, its pieces scattered like my hopes for the legacy I once imagined. My children, though dear to me, grew up in different times, with different priorities. They never quite embraced the tradition the way I had hoped.

And then there are nights especially as Christmas draws near when the memories overwhelm me. I think of my kids, of my wife, of all the moments I thought would last forever. A hollow ache fills the space where joy once lived, and I can’t help but wonder: Did I fail them? Sometimes, in the stillness, I ask myself why I’m still here.

Since now everything is gone, it’s just me and my laptop. The late nights I once spent setting up the crib are now spent typing stories. The lights that once adorned the house now live as words on a screen. It’s not the legacy I dreamed of, but in its way, it’s still an act of creation a way to keep the spirit alive, even if only within myself.

Reflection

Life has a way of teaching us that traditions, no matter how deeply we cherish them, can fade over time. It hurts when the joy we once shared feels distant when what we hoped to pass on seems to slip through our fingers. But even in this loss, there is a lesson. Love, effort, and memories are never truly wasted.

The spirit of Christmas is not bound to lights or cribs it lives in the connections we forge and the love we pour into others. Even if traditions fade, the essence of what we share remains within us, shaping who we are. One day, perhaps, the seeds of those memories will bloom again, passed down in ways we might never have imagined. And even if they don’t, the joy and love we experience will forever be a part of us, lighting our way through the quiet moments of reflection.

God Bless My Family This Christmas…

God Bless You All…

Jacob M