It was a Sunday morning, the second Sunday morning of December in fact. My mom and I had just returned home from an Advent mass and were itching to lose our church clothes. The winter sun’s peaking rays found their way into our living room to illuminate the dull space. Our faded oatmeal colored carpet was warm near the windows where the light would shine through. In the place where our Christmas tree belonged laid our lethargic dog, Boomer, whose snores muffled the hum of Frank Sinatra’s angelic “White Christmas” which began to play from my phone’s speaker. Outside, the white snow that had arrived on Friday night was continuing to melt into a gray mush in the streets. The pavement was damp with the water dripping from the melting icicles hanging from our gutters.

My mom and I retrieved our bent, artificial tree from the storage room in the basement. Carrying it piece by piece, we were careful not to scratch the beige paint on the walls as we crept up the stairs. In the living room, she placed the storage-friendly segments of the tree into one, forcing Boomer out of his resting place. I unraveled our newly purchased lights as she strung them over the tree. Aside from the rhythm of the holiday tunes that I had handpicked, our house was quiet. Only the kitchen’s wood floor creaked gently as I passed through it. My dad was away taking care of my ill grandpa. My sisters were out. Everyone was busy. That left only my mom and I to decorate for the holiday season. And if it weren't for the cold December air that rushed in as I opened our scarlet front door to let Boomer outside, it wouldn't have really looked like, smelt like, or felt like Christmas at all.

Later that afternoon, after sipping some watered down semi-hot chocolate, we ventured out into the cold. We carried as much as we could in one trip: prelit garland, nails, a hammer, two miniature Christmas trees, extension cords, and an eight-foot bright orange ladder. I situated the trees how I liked them on our porch. I awaited her approval; she moved them both. As we strung the lights and garland along our brick porch, it began to rain. With each passing moment, the downpour grew heavier. I instructed my mom on the ladder as to where to hang the garland. To the left. Up a little bit. More to the left. My wool gloves became uncomfortably wet by the time we finished with the exterior decorations and lights, but at least our house looked festive.

Returning inside, it became quiet once again. This time I didn’t supply music to fill the void and we returned to our work on the indoor tree. Upon unboxing our usual ornaments, a sense of sorrow was brought over the both of us. This was something we did as a familyㅡ always. And there we sat, just my mom and I. It suddenly felt much less like Christmas and more like going through the motions.

As children, my mother would always get a special white tree ornament for each of us. Mine spelled out my name in my favorite animals, each letter was built by a contorted zoo animal. My sisters and I would rejoice while we discovered our unique ornaments among the holiday decor, and we would buoyantly skip to the tree to hang them because we were so blissfully entranced in our youth. But, this particular year, I felt no such joy in doing so. My sisters had things they would rather do than hang ornaments with me, places they would rather be, people the would rather be with.  And the usual pure delight that I had felt as a child upon discovering my own bulb was now melancholy. “This isn't Christmas,” I admitted to my mom. She hesitated in unwrapping the bubble wrap around the ornament that she held within her fingertips.

At that moment we realized how foolish we had been in rushing to decorate our hollow home. The lights, the tree, and the ornaments did not make it Christmas. What made Christmas so special was not the garland that hung around us or the snowfall outside. What made Christmas so special was my dad’s laugh that echoed through the halls up to my sisters and I.  In our rooms, we giggled together at the boisterous sound of my dad’s Santa like voice. What made Christmas so special was the togetherness we felt during the cold winter nights when we all snuggled up under a blanket near the fire. I realized then, that I did not care about the tree or the lights. I only cared to have my family home with me again.

Then, one enduring week later, on another Sunday morning, the third Sunday of December, my mom, my dad, my sisters, and I  returned home from another Advent mass. This time, we were in no hurry to lose our church clothes. My sister decided to make cinnamon rolls for us. And that warm vanilla smell spread quickly through the house. Relaxed in our dresses and khaki slacks, we sat down together to eat and I plugged in the undecorated Christmas tree for us to admire. Our chatter muffled the sounds of Boomer’s peaceful snoring from the living room. Eventually, we began to place our ornaments on the tree, but we didn't need to.

It felt like Christmas even without them.