Christmas was different this year. Our house is much smaller now and Mum put the tree up late. A few years ago, I would not have let that slide, but I guess I grew up and don’t feel all that festive anymore.
I think my indifference freaked Mum out because she was suspiciously enthusiastic about decorating the tree. A few days before Christmas, the living room was filled with string lights and ceramic snowmen and I still hadn’t wrapped any gifts yet. I was too preoccupied, sitting on the sofa and watching Glee.
That evening, Abbi slipped out of her room cradling six presents in her arms — I cracked a smile as she placed them underneath the dopey tree. She poked her tongue out of the corner of her mouth like she did when she was little.
Abbi’s spontaneous spirit masks the melancholy of winter — she has enough energy for the both of us.
As soon as snow fell in December, Abbi would pull me out of my trundle bed and into my secondhand snow pants. Bundled up like babies, we swam in the snow until angels covered every inch of the backyard. We flew down neighbourhood hills on plastic sleds while I screamed, “Slower!” and Abbi yelled, “Faster!”
She hucked snowballs at my face until I surrendered and Mum called us for dinner. School was out but winter break never felt lonely because we had each other: two peas in a pod, built-in best friends.
A while ago, my family decided Christmas tree farms were overrated. Vancouver Island was full of fir trees and Dad had a saw. When it came time to decorate the house, he would hoist us into the truck and set off in search of a tree.
Abbi would kick the back of my seat as the three of us navigated the back roads of the Comox Valley, humming along to The Ramones. Our mutt Teddy often tagged along and stuck his head out the window like Scooby-Doo.
Abbi would fall first into the snow while I marched through the bush in determination.
She pointed at every tree we walked by and always asked, “Why not this one?” to which I replied, “There must be a better one.”
Even though we would stay out until I chose the perfect tree, it always looked sort of stupid in the living room, sparking our family tradition of settling for dopey-looking Christmas trees.
Underneath tinselled beams and paper snowflakes, our awkward Christmas tree stood wonkily in the living room corner, donned with all the colours of the rainbow.
We never subscribed to a thematic Christmas — pinecone ornaments, homemade decor, secondhand string lights, hand-sewn reindeer antlers and tacky throw pillows. Our house looked like Santa’s workshop.
Justin Bieber often sang Christmas songs through the speakers as Mum took videos of us dancing around the living room. For the finishing touch, Abbi would climb up onto my shoulders to crown the tree with a silver star. It was always crooked.
Wiped out after an evening of festivities, the two of us curled up under fuzzy blankets and watched cheesy Hallmark movies. Mum made us hot chocolate, we laughed at our milk moustaches. We ended the night with a ‘sister sleepover,’ taking turns scratching each other’s backs.
I treasured my family. All of these things we did together made Christmas my favourite holiday and the highlight of my year.
But Christmas was different this year. I was behind on my gift wrapping and didn’t come along to hack a tree down. I felt guilty about it. Abbi took a funny video of Mum sawing the trunk of a lanky fir tree and it made me laugh.
Even though I said I was too tired for our annual festivities, Abbi pretended not to hear me and encouraged me to be more cheerful. She decorated the tree by herself for the first time. Her arms were long enough to weave lights through the branches and she was tall enough to reach the top of the tree, though the trunk was too thin for the weight of the silver star.
As rain slammed against the living room windows, I began to miss the snow and how innocently we used to play in it. I thought about how much the climate of our hometown has changed, how much our family traditions have changed — how much we’ve changed.
After Abbi decorated the tree, we huddled under a big blanket and watched Baywatch. She told me about her New Year’s Eve plans and pondered what colour to dye her hair. I told her I bought Dad a Hot Wheels truck and a pack of Guinness for Christmas. We complained about how the rain fogs up our Mazda Protege.
Christmas traditions evolve, but our dopey fir tree still sags in the corner, shining brightly by the window. This year, Mum’s stocking is stuffed with cotton pads and nail polish. Teddy snores in the armchair beside us.
Our house is smaller and we are older, but we still have each other: two peas in a pod, built-in best friends.
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