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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required When December comes, memories stir up unsought. Once caught in its whirl I sink down deep until inebriated December brings in its wake baskets full of recollections which take me back to the days at my parental home, where, as a child, celebrated Christmas with my siblings and my parents. I haven’t forgotten those haunting days and never will I, if sanity sticks. To my parents, Christmas meant waking up early, putting on the best dress kept ready and going to church to attend the mass. While they devoutly partook of the ceremonies, we children, lured by the sparkling lights would peer into the crib set ready at one corner to have a look at infant Jesus lain on hay with mother Mary and Joseph on either side and the Magi, shepherds and their herd More than piety, what governed us then were the thoughts of making a crib. Also the yummy goodies awaiting us at home and the planned visits of relatives. On every Christmas, our house would become an extended family with our uncle and aunt and their children of almost our own age group. Preparing an inventory of things to do was the greatest fun for us children. Playing hide and seek and going on a trek to the neighbouring hill were the two things that always figured in the wish list. Though there were no presents under the Christmas tree to be unwrapped and no fanfare as of now, how I relish the unconditional love my parents gave that I still feast on when I starve in life’s sandy dunes. Festive occasions spark such nostalgia that I long for the warmth, got as a child from my parents who are now dearly missed and my siblings scattered in places, out of easy reach. As waves of memories from the past, retreat and throw back relentless, when blood calls to blood, their echoes beat hard on the walls of my heart.
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