January 7th, 2012

Growing up in a small town in the middle of New England, you would have thought it incredibly strange to spend Christmas away from your family.

They showered you with gifts - there were always flannel pajamas on Christmas Eve, and books or computer games or a new camera sitting under the tree in the early hours when you got out of bed with your sister and came running down the stairs on Christmas morning. Your mother always prepared cinnamon rolls the night before, so the sticky sweet scent would waft through the downstairs as presents were torn open. The dog would try her best to eat ornaments off the low hanging branches, and your father would photograph everything.

But things haven’t been that way in years now. Three years ago, you had an early morning flight to catch to the Midwest and a boy waiting there for you. You made a decision, and it was the beginning of the end. The next year you were a Christmas orphan, 4,000 miles away from your mother’s hugs and your sister’s laugh, sitting in front of a ladder covered in Christmas lights and dancing in a nightclub while the snow piled up outside.

This year you cooked for nine other orphans and everyone said the meal was perfect. You woke up to snuggles and a phone call from your mom, who was dying to show you the sweatshirt she purchased for the puppy with the emblem of the alma mater of everyone in the family except you. 

You miss the fireplace. You miss your bedroom with the Colonial Williamsburg paint and the oriental carpet. You miss the convenience of the local supermarket and the bagels slathered with cream cheese that you would get on the way to school. Mostly you miss your sister and how she’s become a real person ever since you moved out. You miss the look on your dad’s face when he’s entertaining your crazy schemes and you miss the hugs and love pats that your mom would give you just because.