19th December

The month of December has always been my favorite month, even compared with the month I was born. As a kid, I would engage myself into that vehement excitement of counting gifts placed under the Christmas tree. The Christmas tree, as a child, was no more than a decorative furnishing, which garnished the entire season. I never thought of a greater trance than the presents in stored for me (if I would be good on Christmas day. ) But as I aged, the essence of Christmas, as I realized it to be, transcends from a materialistic and worldly standpoint to that of a spiritual quintessence. Then, I realized that the Christmas tree began to be “my Christmas tree”- an emblem of love, and a shadow of every beauty ensued throughout the year, salvaged from adversities and atrocities. All that comprise it had their motif too. The tree alone was I. The décor balls were the dazzling joy I had experienced and the ribbons were the friendships I shaped. What was more, those little luminous lights were the hope, which carried me each time I felt forlorn. In summation, a story was right on hand.

For 16 years, I sat in front of my Christmas tree deliberating this simple telltale I authored for myself. The story would begin from the tree’s roots as a preparation for the first day of December. The body of the story would be the green plastic leaves which fleshed the tree’s skeleton. And the culmination—the climax of a 30-day story telling-- would end on the star consigned on the pinnacle of the tree. There was no anti-climax and conflict as the story transcends. I was simple happy. Especially…

On my 17th year of December, I did not sit alone. Somebody came into my life and shared the same pleasure I discovered with my humble tale. I could still remember the exact date when he added warmth and jubilance to my story. That was December 19. He sat beside me the following year too. Then, it occurred to me. I was happier.

But things changed. What we expect doesn’t usually turn out the way we envisioned it to be. Thus, during the 19th year of my December, my Christmas tree never heard the story I use to tell nor I was able to sit beside it. As I once compared it to be a shadow, like Peter Pan’s fate, I lost it and it lost me too. Should I stitch my shadow back, my tree would just be chapfallen for the sober story I had to cry. My customary tale changed. Its roots became a bitter and flimsy buttress for all the fickle foundation of December. The décor balls were tears of wretchedness. The ribbons were ripped. Those fuzzy lights even refused to shine. There was no star! My tree despised me, and I despised it too. That was my saddest Christmas.

The following year, I began to miss my tree. I was held guilty by the demeanor I portrayed. I wanted to ask forgiveness and be forgived in return. But there was nothing much I could do for my tree was locked inside a box at the deepest nook of a room. Hence, on February – a month of loneliness and repentance – I played and listened Christmas carols hoping that my tree would hear it and accept my clemency, which would eventually mend the lost December and story we had. Others thought I was crazy for echoing these songs, but I did not care much because what existed between my tree, and me none could understand.

This 20th year of December, I am more eager to finally meet my Christmas tree again after last year’s quagmire. But I am too afraid to tell another story. I might relay lines which could enliven a familiar, heartrending plot which was locked inside a box that had long been hidden at the deepest nook of my memory’s room. Nonetheless, I must be bold for my tree so it could hear another happy story again, which hopefully would forget the past year—the past year that bore me lost love and friendship; a love which I thought to be forever; a friendship which I thought was stronger than the trivialities of the words of mouth. To tell this is bold. There are things we cannot control in our lives and the only way to make it bearable is to write it.


And it came to me…in life, as the tita of my friend, JV, wrote in her book, there will always be “great loves and lost loves”. In the same way, there would always be happy stories and sad ones for one will never know the soul of happiness if no one came face with sadness. Victor Frankl wrote: “ In the past nothing is irretrievably lost but everything irrevocably stored. I say: “That which is great maybe lost and that which is lost may be great.”