My cousin Carter is one of the few people I know who possibly loves Christmas more than I do. It’s a toss-up between him and Jesus, and let’s be honest, Jesus is just celebrating his birthday. This Christmas, Christ will be 2,013 years old, or roughly half the time it takes to get a taxi after work on Fridays.
Carter and I love everything about Christmas. We love the trees, the cakes, the Nat King Cole song. As a kid I always failed to stay up late enough to see Santa shimmy down the chimney. And every year, no matter what, the last thing I heard before sleeping was the faint echo of sleigh bells. I’ve tried to recapture this for Christmas these days—that quiet understanding that everything is just a little less ironic, just a little bit more special. I lie in bed Christmas Eve wide-eyed, hoping to see a jingling fat man bearing presents, or for a New Year where we’ll be thin, wealthy, or maybe just better people.
When we were little, Carter and I would go into our grandparents’ woods with my uncles and cut down a tree. Afterward we’d hoist it on our shoulders and carry it through the woods, leaving nothing behind but five sets of footprints and a few pine needle clues for the squirrels. Sadly, there isn’t a Hong Kong equivalent though I have fantasized about stashing one of those fir trees at Ikea in the kitchen section, “discovering it” next to the sinks, and triumphantly hoisting it to the checkout.
And that’s my point I guess. Hong Kong feels bereft of Christmas traditions to me. It’s easy in colder climates when you have open spaces and fireplaces and snow to get into the spirit of things; here you have to try a little harder.
So I’ll leave you with that and the words of Clement Clarke Moore, as Santa leaves the house after filling it with presents:
He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle,
And away they all flew like the down of a thistle.
But I heard him exclaim, ‘ere he drove out of sight,
“Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good-night!”