I always knew, somewhere deep and small within me, that the delight and joy of Christmas had faded as I got older. I tried every year to feel that same childlike joy, but it has never been the same. I have been trying to concoct magic for myself every year when the tricks have long been revealed. And for a second it was the most sobering realization I had all year; my head spun, and I got deeply sad, yearning for a time I would never get back. But when I immersed myself in those Christmas memories, all the small ones- I remember one year it was so warm and grassy that I rode my brand new bike outside, or our tradition of waiting until midnight Christmas Eve to open one gift and then opening the rest after we slept, or just feeling the immense elation, like a pressure in my heart, of watching someone tear open a gift you spent time ruminating over, watching their face for the moment of surprise-I realize I was lucky to have these to look back on in the first place. And until the nostalgia wears off and I begin my own Christmas traditions, it will be enough to tide me over. A festive liminal space if you will.