I was 5 I think. It was late. The music was loud. The basement, where we all were was warm. There was a fire in the magic fireplace, covered in colored rocks and agate. Everyone was happy. Everyone was laughing. We had opened presents. The old beer signs were on. My dad picked me up and was dancing with me. Neil Diamond's "Cracklin Rosie" was playing. It was perfect. Perfect, perfect, perfect. The dead were still with us.
I savor that one. Christmas was never that wonderful, magical and warm again. But I have that one to treasure, lock away and keep deep in my heart. Where I can remember all of it. What I wore. The smell of the fire. The sound of the stereo. The feeling of being in my father's arms when I was so small. The happiness of getting presents. Safety, security, and being loved. I can trot all of that out when I'm having a rough day. And know that it happened once.
The hard part is being able to recognize that I am all that is keeping the memory alive- it can't be replicated, and the place itself will be gone soon. It has been falling apart for a long time. But it shouldn't be a sad thing- only something to expect and to make allowances for.
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