New Year’s Day is in the past. The Christmas tree stands in the corner. Sunlight streams through the window and reflects off the ornaments. I admire my tree again, as I have for the last few weeks. In a week or so, I’ll pack the ornaments lovingly in their containers and relive the memory of when they first came into my possession. The tree will be dismantled, packed in its box, and everything will be put away for another year. I’ll smile, because I know, like a photo album stored on a shelf to collect dust, it will be pulled out again, dusted off, and once again bring back the past.
As a kid, I hated that time of year. For weeks, I browsed through the toys in the catalogs—I dreamed. The wrapped presents taunted me—I wished. Christmas morning came—I unwrapped. The things I dreamed of were revealed—I was happy. My happiness was short lived.
On Christmas Day, I’d sit by the tree. Scraps of wrapping paper, missed by the broom, slid across the floor when I blew at them. I felt sad. I’d blow in the direction of the tree and watch the tinsel swing in the breeze I created. “Michael! Stop that!” Mum scolded me. “The tinsel gets tangled in the branches.”
“Sorry, Mum.”
After unwrapping my gifts, I felt empty. Something was missing.
The New Year came. I hated it too. I felt no excitement for a new beginning. I didn’t want to let go of the old and bring in the new. The “new” meant back to school and homework. “New” meant Christmas and its excitement were twelve months away.
I look at my tree again. Why was I sad back then?
It took me a long time to figure it out. I missed the excitement. It’s like a drug. I was addicted to it. I loved the anticipation. A torn wrapper revealed what was underneath, ruining the thrill.
More than forty New Years’ later, I finally understand. The pretty papers covering my past are torn away, but the future holds newly wrapped presents. I’m not sad my previous life has been opened, because I know the future has new and exciting gifts to be unwrapped. The gifts are not important. It’s the memories they create, reflected off the ornaments on the tree, that count.
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