I don’t celebrate Christmas.

Yep, you read that right.

I’m saying this just to clarify that this piece isn’t really about Christmas itself.

It’s about the holidays, specifically the December holidays.

I cast my mind back, in nostalgia, to a time when holidays were truly holidays.

When we gathered at the feet of grandparents, listening to folklore and stories about their past… about our past.

When morning chores were done with unusual enthusiasm, just so we could join the mothers in the kitchen afterwards.

When some of us abandoned our clothes on rocks to enjoy the village stream (I never did that one).

When travelling to the village every December felt like an unspoken New Year resolution.

When everyone interacted with respect, regardless of education or status.

Those were good times.

Times when speaking the mother tongue didn’t feel like a task.

When our new year dresses were treated like fragile golden eggs.

Oh, do you remember when our mothers used a broom to measure our legs?

Mine did. Several times.

There are many things I remember fondly about the holiday break.

And sometimes, I wonder what happened.

Did I outgrow them?

Did I suddenly become too big to mingle with my dear cousins?

No. Of course not.

The grandparents died.

Everybody got busy.

School came in the way.

The roads became toxic.

Priorities shifted.

And it seems like life created a massive wall between us all.

But maybe one day, we’ll all come together again and sing the songs that were once sung to us.

Maybe we’ll tell those stories to the younger ones.

Maybe the holidays won’t be about who made the finest hair.

And maybe, just maybe, the holidays will feel homely once again.