I used to call it Christmas.

All of it, when I was younger. The lights stemming out from around the (real) tree, the neighbors' decorations, the candles at Christmas mass. The cookies that would be sat upon a plate the night before, and the feast we would cook up the morning of the day of. The garbage bag full of torn wrapping paper, and the sinking in exhaustion from failing to truly conquer the second or third day jet lag. The smiles and the laughter and the pictures and the hugs and kisses (family).

One year, suddenly, it was just the three of us.

The year after, I learned that my extended family could hate me, one day.

And now there's a country none of us have been to in years.
(It used to be an annual thing.)

It stopped being Christmas when it lost its magic.

And for a while, I thought that was it. Done. Gone.

But it isn't about "Christmas",
the tradition of it or the religion or just the name
(or it can be and it is but it doesn't need to be)
because it's about warmth.

About the couple I gave up on half-a-decade ago looking in love again.
About making the ones who look on the verge of tears just smile instead.
About the people you love, who love you back, with absolute certainty.
About the street lights (pollution-causing or not) chasing away the dark.

It's about healing, about the fact that things can be fixed.
It's about hope, about how broken things aren't always broken.
It's about the cold, how someone's there to heat up your soul after it.

It's about warmth.