Every year without fail, I tell my husband I am tired of Christmas. Tired of it all, tired of it forever. No more holiday baking, holiday music, holiday ad nauseam.

I am done!

And then I put up the tree.

I buy a new garland and a new tree-top star, I string on the lights and attach a small bird ornament next to the star, and once again, succumb helplessly to the shimmery magic of Christmas.

It is the old enthrallment, utterly captivating, forever accruing; all the memories of all the trees of Christmases past visit themselves upon this newest tree, a collective presence, a vision to behold. I see again that first silvery shimmering presence, suddenly magically appeared; the shimmer is mysterious and fragrant and somehow possesses intimate knowledge of my heart’s desire: A cuddly baby doll emerges from the light into my longing arms.

A galaxy of rainbow lights and silver tinsel swirl, tiny orbs glow and make of a woodland tree a universe to behold. I lie beneath it, lost in the wonder, dreaming the dreams of childhood, dreaming of the secret Magi that will visit while I sleep, leaving gifts that tell me: I am loved.

I see again the presents, wrapped and ribboned with flair, my mother’s special touch; I look for the ones that will be mine, try to guess what lies within, knowing I will love them all; they are special proof my mother has been paying attention to me, she has marked how I am growing, changing, emerging.

I see again my older brother’s wicked grin; I have just unwrapped his present to me, a 1,000-piece jigsaw puzzle. He knows how I hate puzzles, but this one I like; he is paying attention to me, too. I feel the snow crunching beneath my feet and see the stars that are somehow bigger and brighter then ever before over my head; I see the tree that is special among all the trees, because we choose it and it is ours.

Beloved ghosts gather around the tree; there is my mother, young and beautiful and smiling, there are my little sisters, each cuddling her new baby doll in turn; there is my gentle younger brother, my favorite playmate. There are friends and family and long ago pets, all returned to me; there is myself, too, every year a little older and wiser, proof I am still growing, changing, emerging.

And there are my children, young again; my heart turns over as they emerge from the silvery, magical, shimmering glow, smiling at me. My firstborn was a Christmas baby, a tiny child to fill my longing arms; mother and Magi both, l lay gifts of love beneath the tree.

Every year without fail, I say I am done, done forever with the holidays; every year I learn again how I can never be done, that the Christmas magic, the silvery shimmery light, holds something now more priceless then dreams; it holds memories beneath the the Christmas tree that never die.

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