12.24.25: Christmas Eve

Christmas Eve always felt like holding your breath. The day before the day, full of potential and last-minute panic. My mom would still be wrapping presents at midnight, cursing quietly about tape. The house smelled like pine and something burning in the oven. As a kid, I'd lie awake calculating how many hours until morning, bargaining with the universe for snow. Now I live somewhere that's never seen snow. Christmas Eve here is warm and strange, but I still feel that same holding pattern. Waiting for something to arrive. Maybe that's what hope feels like when it has a deadline.