I keep saying I don’t care about Christmas. That it’s just a day like any other. It doesn’t even feel like Christmas here in Marbella, with this huge blue sky over our heads.
Yet, Christmas doesn’t feel like just any other day. It feels sad. It’s one of the saddest days of the year.
I remember the 6-year-old me on Christmas Eve leaving a window slightly open and milk and cookies on the table for Santa. I remember running down the stairs early on Christmas morning and staring with my mouth open in astonishment at a huge Christmas tree full of gifts. That year, Santa brought me Findus, a huge polar bear that traveled with me to Spain and who’s still with me.
But soon I stopped believing in Santa and all that magic disappeared.
I remember going to the Christmas mass with my friends and family and filling my eyes with the beauty of the street lights and my thoughts with good intentions. I would light a candle, say a prayer for the less fortunate ones and promise God to be a better girl.
But soon I stopped believing in God and religion, and all that disappeared.
I remember looking forward to having Christmas lunch at my grandma’s. Like every year, she would cook for two days and would never forget to make my favourite meatballs. Then the whole family would come and it would be one of those perfect days that is indelibly fixed in our minds.
But soon my parents divorced and all that disappeared, too.
We tried a couple more Christmases together, but we all realised that Christmas for us was about family—a beautiful family reunion—and when we lost that, Christmas lost its meaning.
But somehow, when this period of the year comes, the memory of the past happiness still haunts me. I loved Christmas and wish I could still love it as much as I used to.
So it’s not true that I don’t care about Christmas. I just say it to overcome the sadness that the memory of it has left and, deep inside, I can’t wait to have kids to make my Christmas right again.