Tree by Lia Villares
A mix of nostalgia and joy comes over me each time the end of the year approaches; it might seem sentimental, but I am one of those who adores Christmas. Perhaps the origin is in the absence of Christmas decorations in which I live, in the lack of joy and in many senses the cultural apathy that my country brings to this world holiday.
We couldn’t even celebrate the turn of the century, as Fidel was in his mathematical stage and decided that the new century began in 2001, not in the zero year. A single man deprived 11 million of the changing millennium. The following year, of course, no one would celebrate the new XXI century, it was ridiculous.
A group of friends and I refuse to accept December 24 as just another day. For almost ten years we have gotten together to eat and carry on as normal, a united family of close friends. It has become impossible not to notice that we are fewer every twelve months: a decade ago we were fifteen, this year we will be seven and we already know that two of those will not be here the next 24th.
I will keep waiting—missing the absent—for the day when we are once again fifteen. The turn of the century I will leave to my grandchildren; to them I will entrust the task of celebrating it in the name of their grandmother, who lived when time was edited by one man.