Christmas Lights

I remember as a child, the excitement that accompanied Christmas as it approached. As soon as the month of December began, school work would finish and our teachers would hand out advent calendars and give us nativity crosswords and colour books. Personally myself, I was never a huge fan of Christmas, or any special occasion for that matter whether it was birthdays, Easter or New Years Day. Throughout my childhood, every holiday was plagued, destroyed by my parents. Every year it was the same, my mum would fret about what to make and where to fit everyone in the house. My Dad would mow the lawn and clean the veranda while my mum would yell out the kitchen window telling him to hurry up and get the some ice, get the drinks out of the car and of course, fix the Christmas lights.

Three minutes before the guests would arrive; my Dad would arrive home with the ice and begin to cool the drinks. He never fixed the Christmas lights. This pattern continued throughout my childhood and into my teenage years. I grew up in an area called ‘the Boulevard’ which was famous throughout the state for its home’s Christmas decorations. Every year thousands of people would walk through the Boulevard, marvelling at the Christmas lights that adorned the homes. I used to sit by the window seal and watch the crowds look excitedly into the garden of my home only to be let down; they would shrug, and walk away.

For once, I wanted to be the home that the crowds would stop to look at. I wanted to be the home that the kids remember and they drove home. I just wanted my home to be part of the Christmas ‘spirit’ that helped put a smile on people’s faces.

It wasn’t like my parents didn’t make the effort. Every year my Dad would climb up onto the roof and nail the lights in the shape of our home. Sometimes he would like the fence and the driveway as well. But there was always a problem, always one light that wouldn’t work, therefore making a whole row of lights stopped working. My Dad would spend hours trying to fix it and my Mum would yell at him for wasting time and the lights would be left on my roof, unplugged and unused.

I moved out of home as soon as I hit eighteen and went to university. I studies law for six years and met my boyfriend Andrew; together we bought a house, on the Boulevard. Andrew was studious, hard working, the house was a gift to us from his parents and to be honest, I didn’t want it. I didn’t want to go back to the Boulevard. If it was up to me, I would move to the other side of the country and never have to think about that retched neighbourhood again. My time away from home had turned my disappointment in Christmas into hatred. It’s almost as if everything that wasn’t quite right in my life came back to that damn holiday. My parents divorce, my constant rejection by those around me, the list just goes on. If it was up to me, I would forget that the holiday even existed.

“Hey love” I felt Andrew’s arms around my waist.

I smiled and kissed him lightly on the neck “What’s up?”

He took hold of my hand and led me outside. I gasped, our home shone with thousands of Christmas lights lining the pathways, windows, trees and the shape of our house “This is absolutely stunning” I smiled looking up at Andrew.

He looked down at me, “and it’s all for you.”

That year, the children passed by our home, their eyes wide with excitement, with joy as they marvelled at the Christmas lights which adorned our home.