Further Up & Further In

Christmas Is

I. Christmas is warm: warmer than she can express. She looks up at the tree with wide eyes, the shrinking blue capturing every glint of light, and then her dad lifts her up on his shoulders and she places the star on top with careful hands. Her mother rocks Lucy in the corner. Peter chases Edmund down the hall. Susan sits safely on her father's shoulders and thinks Christmas is... Christmas is... Christmas is... until she stops believing she will ever find the words to describe it.

II. Christmas is coming, and Susan finds her parents wrapping presents in their bedroom, and she doesn't even mind the illusion being shattered. She's getting older now, after all. Surely at some point she must stop believing in fairytales, and, besides, she rather likes being in on a grown-up secret. Still, she never tells anyone – not even Peter – the truth about what she saw, and when Lucy opens her new doll from Father Christmas, Susan gives her parents a knowing smile. She likes it better this way. Someday, she thinks, when she's a little bit older, she'll save up her own money to buy presents, too.

III. Christmas is magic: the likes of which she has long since stopped believing in. It's the chill of snow and sting of wind on bright red cheeks, and it's the sight of her brother trudging onward in his long fur coat, and it's the jingle of bells, and the glint of silver. And then it's a promise: a promise that Edmund will come back to them: a promise that they will know what to fight for: a promise that even she can be brave. Winter melts away into primrose spring, but Susan carries Christmas gently over her shoulder, and the weight of the bow promises to bend to her numb, uncalloused fingers the way the evergreen branches bend under the snow.

IV. Christmas is loud and bright and merry. Feet dance and dresses twirl and fire flickers throughout the ballroom, and Susan pauses in the centre of it all to take it in. Friends laugh at the falling snow outside the windows; Edmund lifts his arm and turns Lucy into a wild spin; gifts are piled in precarious stacks under trees, waiting to be given. And Susan feels and feels and feels until she thinks she might burst at the sight of it all. But her heart does not burst, and someone asks her to dance, and in the next moment she is dancing across the ballroom among all her guests.

V. Christmas is emptier than it used to be. The Professor puts his all into hosting Christmas for the children, listening intently to all Lucy's stories and suggestions, as if there is any hope of bringing their Narnian Christmases back to life. Still, Susan smiles and busies herself with the work that needs to be done. When Mrs. Macready heads out to the shops, Susan slips her her meagre savings and asks her to pick up a treat for her brothers and sister; this may not be home, but Susan will do all she can to make it one. She doesn't quite convince herself, but Lucy, at least, should never have to know the difference. At night, the candle flickers on Susan's bedside table until she picks it up and sneaks outside; despite her hopes, it doesn't snow, and when she looks up, the winter stars are not what she remembers.

VI. Christmas is busy: always busy. There is shopping to do, and parties to attend, and baking with her mother and sister, and work, of course, to fill every other moment of her time. Susan meets her family at church, and then leaves as soon as the service ends; she'll see them later, after all, and she has last minute tasks to finish. Back in her flat, she has put up simple garlands in place of a tree, and her presents, yet unwrapped, lay scattered across her table.

VII. Christmas is lonelier than she ever could have imagined. Her friends drop off gifts for her early, all too busy with their own lives to turn up on the day itself, which is probably for the better, because Susan has no intentions of answering the door. She spends the previous evening eating dinner with a family she barely knows, and she tries not to let them remind her of her own. They invite her to church. She says she has other plans. Her flat is devoid of even the barest decorations, and she doesn't go to the house to search boxes; she doesn't even think of it. If she does, she'll surely find the paper snowflakes she and Peter cut out one year when Lucy was especially upset that it didn't snow. It's easier just to stay in bed.

VIII. Christmas is growing again: some glimmer of peace or hope or joy is shining in her eyes, and, for the first time in ages, Susan doesn't try to shut them. She invites her friends over, and they set out to find a tree: bright and green and full of life despite the dreary cold, as Christmas has always claimed to be. They spend the day making garlands of popped corn and cranberries, and at the end, Susan hangs all the homemade decorations she hasn't let herself admire in years on the lively branches. When they step back to admire their handiwork, Susan feels warm again. The lights reflect in her eyes and the tears swelling inside them. When the star is placed atop the tree, Susan's heart threatens to burst.

IX. Christmas is a revelation. The promise of it all is still there, even though she has buried it under the snow. It's a humble arrival – a baby – (a child) – wrapped in cloths – (furs) – good news of great joy – a promise – (a prophecy) – a tale familiar and well-worn and maybe – (maybe?) – walked before. Susan shivers, though the church is not cold. She doesn't remember, but, as the snow starts to fall outside, she begins to feel as though she could.

X. Christmas is, in spite of all doubts and fears and distractions, here once again. Susan watches her daughter – safe in her father's arms – carefully set the star on top of the tree. Christmas carols play softly on the radio. Thin, faded paper snowflakes hang from the ceiling. Father Christmas will come soon– (Susan has bought the presents, but there is magic in giving.) There is magic just around the corner, if only you will let yourself look for it. Susan sees it now. She sees the warmth of Peter's smile, and the excitement in Edmund's eyes, and the cheer in the way Lucy sings every carol while dancing down the halls; she sees the selflessness of her father, and the care of her mother in every wrapped gift beneath the tree; she sees, in her memory, the joy on her friend's faces as they dance without a care all through the night, and the flickering light of the fire keeping them warm in the dead of winter. And she sees the dark days, the empty days, and the lonely days, and in them, too, she sees the flickering fire: a candle on a table, flames roaring in a fireplace, warm yellow light through a kitchen window. There is light even in the dark. Promises are kept no matter how long you must wait. There is hope in spite of despair. There is, fearlessly, peace, even in suffering. There is joy. Christmas is, Susan thinks, and all these words dance through her mind as if she might finally, after all this time, find the right one. Set back on the ground, her daughter runs into her arms, exclaiming excitedly. Susan barely dares to blink. Christmas is... Christmas is... Christmas is... Once again, the word escapes her.