The Christmas snow that healed us all
- Melissa Herrera: Not Waiting for Friday
- January 5, 2025
- 186
As I pulled out this column from Christmas 2020, I thought about the snow that fell that day. It seemed to purify the entire year. Rereading it has brought me immense pleasure, and I wanted to share it with you. Onward 2025.
The snow started falling somewhere the day before Christmas and didn’t end until Dec. 25 had run its course. I kept looking out the window as I worked in the kitchen, readying delectable bites we would nosh on over the course of the evening.
It was one, two, three of us — all inhabitants of this dwelling — that gathered over raspberry margaritas, crispy deep-fried egg rolls, and snow that seemed lush and magical. Maybe ethereal is a better word. I wish for a white Christmas every year, and every year I’m left wanting, looking out at an expanse of green grass. But not this year, a year that’s taken its pound of flesh from each of us. The snow stung my face as we meandered outside to snap photos.
I arose at 5:30 Christmas morning, unable to sleep a second longer, knowing the snow would be rich and thick like a bowl of homemade vanilla ice cream. I felt a child-like excitement that I didn’t try to quell, and the swirls of drifted snow that covered every surface outside my window were the biggest gift I received that day. The house was quiet and still, and I brewed my coffee strong, a generous dollop of half and half stirred in. The couch enveloped me warmly, mug warm in my hand, and the lights of the tree sparkled inside my humble living room.
I realize we’re into the first week of January, a place where resolutions and new beginnings abide, but I want to stick my toe back into 2020 for a second and let my emotions hover in the air. For many of us, 2020 will never quite be over because it’ll be that scar that never quite heals or even an uncertain feeling that takes us by surprise. And truly, the numbers 20/20 have nothing to do with what happened inside them because the circumstances didn’t change as the clock struck midnight on Jan. 1. And I know I am more resolved than ever to do my part in acknowledging and aiding in whatever it is I can do.
But for a moment, amidst the snowy realm I awakened to that Christmas morning, I could forget for a singular moment in time. The bubble held me and two other humans breathing deep in their beds, the hot coffee I was lucky to be holding, a warm home to sit inside, and though meaningless, the lovingly purchased gifts that circled the tree. If we never have another snow this winter as deeply humbling as this one, I’ll be OK.
I wish for snow every day past Yule, that longest day of the year that reminds us we are not in control of any one thing. Midwinter cycles round, bringing Christmas and cold soon after. To me it is a healing time, one of burrowing and nesting, gathering round closely to stay warm, and watching the Earth rest until it’s once again time to rise. If we need a time such as this, after the year of our Lord 2020, this is that time, and we would do well to heed its call.
Christmas dawn turned into Christmas morning as we ate fresh fruit and downed sausage casseroles chock full of goodness. We drank mimosas and opened stockings carefully stuffed with trinkets of pleasure: rich hand creams, warm socks and bright shades of eyeshadow. I unwrapped gifts of books and a red Dutch oven I had forever coveted, already thinking of rich stews I could sear, then braise.
Our Christmas Day traditions include gifts, brunch, naps and movies — in that order. There never has, nor ever will be, a formal Christmas dinner for us, and having a turkey or ham on Christmas Day would be strange.
And the day and the snow kept coming, and as night fell, the snow tapered off, as I knew it always would.
Melissa Herrera is a reflective writer who captures the beauty and sorrow of change. With a career spanning 14 years as an opinion columnist and the publication of two books, she resides in Stark County with her husband and four cats. She writes to preserve memories. You can reach her at junkbabe68@gmail.com.