It is deliciously nostalgic to look back on all our Christmases. No two are ever the same
and all of us have memories as uniquely different as our own thumbprints.
I remember a year when I was completely, and entirely happily, alone the night before
Christmas, living where I am now, in a brownstone in Manhattan. It had begun to snow
gently. Big, flat, lazy flakes swirled softly down from the dark sky, settling on the pavement,
white beneath the street lights. I got up from my armchair by the fire a few times to draw
back the curtains and watch the snow, glad to be inside in the warm, cozy room. Though it
was still quite early in the evening, there was hardly anyone about and the street outside
was still, in that arrested, echoless silence snow brings with it.
I heard singing without, for a moment, being consciously aware of the music. Then,
jumping up from my chair, I opened the curtains. There were nine or ten young people in
the deserted street,singing carols together to the night sky, not even knowing anyone
could hear them. They waved up at me as I stood watching them from the window. I felt as
though we were all frozen in space and time. They finished singing and called up, asking
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