I’m 8 years old.
It’s the 1st of January and the world is sparklingly brand-new, like an unopened box of felt-tip pens and coloring books I’ve received as a gift.
Traditionally, we are watching both parts of Home Alone movies dubbed in Ukrainian. It’s that specific voice-over without which this movie loses its charm for me no matter how many times I will be rewatching it later in English.
My parents have already dropped from our telemarathon and are peacefully napping beside me on a massive folding couch the three of us are scattered on in that lazy post-holidaying fashion.
The whole apartment is dunked in darkness (the cozy non-scary kind) with only a small Christmas tree and window dressed up glamorously for the occasion in twinkling lights glowing softly.*
[*This probably begs an explanation for non-Ukrainians. In many parts of CIS countries, New Year’s celebration involves the attributes of Christmas. The Christmas tree, the festive dinner, the gifts supposedly brought by Did Moroz (Ukrainian version of Santa Clause), and other wonderful Christmas-y stuff. Minus Jesus Christ and everything He entails. This is explained by the fact that the Soviet government was on a mission to eradicate everything related to the faith which is why Christmas has been banned for many years. Even the very tradition to decorate the pine tree was prohibited under the USSR anti-religious campaign until 1936. This somewhat messed-up way to celebrate New Year’s arrival stuck with us long after the collapse of the USSR and is still widely practiced.]
So, back to the story now.
I’m all curled up under the blanket on that huge couch which feels like a vessel floating through time and space while Christmas music from my favorite movie is filling the room and my heart.
I am suddenly overwhelmed by the striking beauty of this short-lived moment and a sense of unexplainable loss as I realize that it will all be over soon. And there is no stopping it.
The perfect New Year’s Day, the snow outside which slows everything down making the world softer, as if you find yourself in a dreamy watercolor landscape. The all-night celebration with my little family, the humble Christmas tree, the safety of our vessel-like couch... the unfiltered joy of childhood.
My eyes well with tears I cannot yet define or explain.
This magic that right now is nearly palpable is slipping through my little fingers as burning tears are streaming down my face like a little waterfall.
I remember going to bed that night weeping inconsolably, unable to put into words what was wrong or put a label on the big emotion I was feeling.
The grieving of the childhood that will never come back. The perfect moment that will only stay there. In the past.
And it was true, you know.
That moment couldn’t be ever relived or repeated the exact same way.
We do let go of that sense of pure joy that we experience so fully, so hungrily as kids.
But it is also in our power to restore it. To recreate it for our loved ones as adults.
To feel as intensely. To love as purely. To give as generously.
Without letting the world, its struggles and tragedies roughen our hearts.
