I hope you understand when I admit that there's something oddly specific about the way December’s air pricks my skin. It radiates almost a biting cold—that massive, festive energy in harmony with the strong wind. Arriving weeks before Christmas, it makes my skin itch with anticipation for 'tis the season. I walk with my playlist in hand, so good at pretending that it’s going to be a white one. Is it, though? In my imagination, it is.
If I may confess, my imagination can sometimes be a wild horse. It runs free, like a supernatural force in the witching hour, unbound by the consciousness of any mind. In the crisp, cold air of December, it offers me a vision of something unprecedented. I take the ride willingly, and the next thing I know, I’m aboard Santa’s newest sleigh.
But everything comes with a cost, and even Santa’s sleigh ride carries a clause in the fine print. With the abrupt jolt of his stop, I find myself on the floorboard, smelling warmth and spices, sipping chocolate from a cinnamon-colored trophy. A borrowed jacket draped over my shoulder carries a quiet promise of safety, serving as a fortress against the biting cold outside. I find comfort in everything you see and touch. Like an everlasting bonfire, my bare feet feel warm in the neighborhood of your blue-green vein.
'It’s many years into the future from your newest now,' the calendar on the table seems to point out. I look at the half-empty coffee cup beside it and smile. Its steam is familiar and inviting all the same. I wouldn't say I like coffee, but I hope it remains hot. Can I burrow beneath its warmth, even if you’re the one to sip it down? It’s surreal to watch everything unfold, much like a warm embrace in a cold December.
And then I’m startled by a sudden knock on the window. With his face half-hidden in shadow, Santa motions for me, signaling toward the chimney. I barely have time to respond before being swallowed up by the night sky once more. His sleigh is cold this time. I’m freezing, and the ride turns out to be just as fleeting.
In a jarring moment of weakness, I’m thrown onto a cold, hard surface. It’s all familiar—the setting, the trophy, the cup—but its frigid air completely juxtaposes the prior warmth. There is no jacket around my shoulder this time, just a promise of a caught cold and a deficit of outer glow. I see glimpses of moving pictures in everything I see and touch. Frostweed grows, encircling my bare feet, blocking my every move.
On the table, the calendar looks torn, but it’s still the same time frame. There is no half-empty coffee cup because I don’t drink coffee; only leftover chocolate, already cold and unappetizing. My mouth feels sour upon trying to complete my quest. Dear Santa, is it possible for you to remove this oddity from all the probabilities? I would love it if my future Christmases were warm and bright.
Like a spell being chanted, everything fizzles out. I’m right here in my room with the seasonal playlist still playing familiar tunes. There is no snow where I live, just big rains and heavy winds, but I can still borrow your jacket whenever I need to. I can still hear you order your hot cup of sugarless, bland drink—much to my confusion and preference for the good old chocolate.
Now, I can imagine why Santa wanted me to see all of that. This Christmas, I want to remember that even if that cold, sharp likelihood nestles amidst all things sweet and cozy, it’s a gift to have the courage to give it a whirl and just be tickled pink. Happy December, lovers of December. I hope this message finds you well, just as I find December exactly how it should be: merry and Christmassy.
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