A Christmas Trip Down Memory Lane: A Vignette
As I pull out the big plastic bin labeled “Christmas Stuff” from underneath my childhood bed, I already begin to notice colors and shapes of ornaments and trinkets that take me back to Christmases long past. I get comfortable, open the lid, and start to pick up the objects one-by-one.
The first thing on top of the pile was a wad of chains made of red and green construction paper; it took me back to the cold December evening during middle school that I spent putting it together. I remember I had sat myself in front of the family television to make the chain while “Elf” was playing. The amount of repetitive cutting involved in the process made my fingers cramp after a while, but I was so satisfied with the final result when I was able to hang the chain all around my bedroom walls.
The next thing I picked up was a miniature snow globe. On the inside was a Mickey Mouse figurine wearing a Santa Claus costume, and the base had “2004” written on it. I began to recall finding it in one of my grandma’s drawers as a child, and I asked her if I could keep it to be part of my snow globe collection. Looking at it now, it reminded me of how caring and generous she always was.
Setting the snow globe aside, my hands dug deeper into the bin, and I’m pleasantly surprised to find items I had long forgotten about - ornaments and paper angels I made in grade school classes, pictures of me on Santa Claus’ lap, little decorations for the miniature Christmas tree my parents let me keep in my room. There were also a Disney Princess Christmas CD, Clement Clarke Moore’s A Visit From St. Nicholas in the form of an illustrated children’s book, candles with clear resin angel holders, and a hot chocolate recipe written in elegant cursive on paper older than me. Memories surfaced from the deepest crevices of my mind, memories of how all of these things made Christmas just a little more magical for me growing up. It made me nostalgic for that childhood wonder and innocence, for simpler times, and with it, the bittersweet realization that Christmas would never feel the same again.
Finally beginning to see the bottom of the box, a peculiar trinket catches my eye; a glass tree-topper star that I didn’t recognize. I held it up, and the delicate glass star caught the light, refracting tiny rainbows onto the walls. Its weight was surprisingly substantial for something so fragile, and the edges felt cool and smooth beneath my fingertips. Looking at its base, I notice an inscription: “Nollaig Chríostóir Duit.” I guessed it had something to do with Christmas - perhaps a blessing of some kind - but the exact words escaped me. My best educated guess is that it’s in… Gaelic? How did it end up in my box? Mom’s side of the family are descended from Irish immigrants; could this be an heirloom passed down through generations?
The longer I stare at the star, the harder I find it to pull my gaze away. This is my first time laying eyes on it in all my memory, and yet the shape, weight, and transparency of it feel so familiar. Images flash across my mind of the star being on top of a Christmas tree, being spun around in a silly dance, being unwrapped from several layers of paper towels, and even being polished. Was this my brain’s way of trying to creatively fill in the blanks of the star’s history? Or were these memories more concrete than that? What’s the story behind this star that has never belonged to me, but apparently now does?
My quiet speculation is interrupted by Mom’s beckoning from downstairs: “Honey, supper’s ready!” Picking myself up from the floor, and still clutching the star, I reply “I’m coming, Mom!” What would she have to say when she saw it? Would she recognize it? Would it spark memories for her, too?
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