bioluminescence

midnight clear/harps of gold

Everyone is a fan of Christmas eve. There are parties, there is cake and the popping of glittering bottles of champagne. It has to be one of the liveliest nights of the year. Christmas night, however, is a different kind of beautiful. 

It is -- slower, quieter. Most people were either asleep at home, their bellies full (even the more fortunate of the poor had a good meal on Christmas day. It was a part of the magic), or cuddling in front of the tv. Playing board games or just listening to each other breathe. 

It is also one of the only nights in the year where I can give myself the privilege of a walk.

One of the only days when my mother will manage a real smile at my father on his wheelchair. One of the only days I can count on her to look after him. There was something about this day that somehow managed to rekindle happiness even in a hearth filled to the brim with sand. In this dramatic analogy, the hearth is my family and the sand, our uncountable problems. 

But let's keep the sands of our uncountable problems aside tonight, shall we? Tonight is mine. 

"Don't forget to put on your coat, darling," my mother calls. As if we were any other happy family. It was strange to hear her so youthful. She had washed her hair (which surprisingly had managed to retain some of its bounce) and brushed it, she is dressed in a brand new sweater dress and had even bothered with stockings that matched! Christmas really is miraculous. She is feeding my father some of the burnt, disaster of a pie, that I will take full responsibility for. There is much room for improvement. Warmth spreads through the veins in my heart like a bittersweet infection and I make a mental note to remember this moment. It is fleeting after all. "And don't be too late." 

"Of course not, mum." I don't mean that at all. I plan on being as late as I can tonight. One long, selfish, solitary night.

I slip into my coat, which I had indeed forgotten, and step out of the apartment. I hear laughter and music through every door I pass in the corridor. It warms me up inside in a way only a steaming mug of hot chocolate in the winter can. On other days I wouldn't approve of how cheerful I felt. Happiness gives you hope and hope distracts you. 

But it is Christmas, a day for indulgences. Also, I am slightly drunk.

"What are you smiling about?" The only other occupant of the elevator asks when the doors slide open. Tommy Bells regards me with curiosity over the enormous pie he is balancing in his hands. 

"'Tis the season to be jolly, Bells," I chirp, rather annoyingly, as I step in and press the button with the letter G engraved on it. 

Bells isn't Tommy's actual surname. It is a nickname I gave to him about eight years ago when he first moved into our building. Tommy used to have a strange fascination with bells and I had a weak sense of humour. I thought the nickname was genius. He used to run around the lobby ringing his bells until he drove the doorman and receptionist insane. I actually have no clue what his real surname is. "Where are you taking that sexy pie?" 

"The next building. My mum's sister lives there and she can't bake to save her life," he explains. 

"Oh, yeah, I know," I say nodding.

Tommy's eyebrows shoot up, a playful smile dancing on his lips, "you do? I knew Kristy was bad but I didn't know she was famous for it." He hasn't changed at all. 

I laugh, maybe a little harder than I intended to. A perk of having European parentage is that they're not against the occasional wine drinking. Especially on special nights. And tonight I had let myself indulge in that extra glass that tipped me ever so slightly over the edge and made me feel woozy and light-headed. I am not drunk, no. I can't afford to be completely out of it, in case things get icy back at home. But I am more than happy for this slight buzz that seems to make all the lights shine a little brighter. And seem to make me a tad bit sillier than I would like, but Christmas is a time for indulgences. Did I say that already?