There’s a familiar buzz in the air, a strangely comforting feeling that reminds me of home. Walking down the street, with cold gusts of wind seeping through my cotton gloves and wool coat, I take a moment to look around and observe the ongoing preparations for Christmas day.

The street lamps are adorned with wreath-like decorations, setting off a hazy yellow light that feels all at once familiar and nostalgic. Christmas carols are blasting from the speakers from nearby stores. The songs take me back to Manila, to my family and friends, my home—the way all Christmas songs do. Every song is a time machine, every song has its own moments with me and I am here and there all at once.

I remember waking up one Christmas morning, as I rubbed the sleep from my eyes. I went out of my bedroom and into the hallway, and was greeted with the wondrous aroma of bacon, eggs, pancakes, and hot chocolate wafting in the air. A plate of hot bibingka, a form of sticky rice cake, smothered in caramelized sugar was also served. There was a spread on our table that morning, and I remember feeling ecstatic for the day ahead. Across the dining room, the Christmas tree was spruced up with beautiful decorations, tiny red, purple, and silver ornaments hanging from its branches.

I always loved our Christmas tree at home because it always meant a little more to me than just a mere evergreen tree. It represented the many hours my family and I took turns in decorating it; the putting up of the tree, the uncovering of the ornaments from boxes, the deciding  of which ornament goes where, to putting up the star at the top—but mostly it was the moments in between. It was the effort that went into it, the love that was behind it, and the happiness brought about in making it.

No matter how old I’d get, I always felt like I was five every Christmas morning. Standing in front of the Christmas tree, wading through craftily-wrapped gifts for a tag with my name, eating and laughing with the family around the table, I’d always feel the youthful abandon of everything else that was bothering me, where all that mattered was right there all around me.

This year, however, marks the first Christmas I have away from home, and at first I was almost sure that I wouldn’t have as memorable a time as I did the previous years. I wouldn’t be going through tradition anymore and see the people I used to always see. But as the holidays approach and the crowds in shopping malls thicken for those in pursuit of the perfect gifts, I begin to realize that despite being thousands of miles away from home, some things remain constant wherever I am.

We may be celebrating Christmas from opposite sides of the globe this year, but I know that it will still remain meaningful because my relationship with my families and friends do not change when I switch time zones. It still is a celebration shared with your loved ones, near or far, and I take comfort in the fact that geography or time zones pose no threat to the heart of Christmas—love.

And it really is everywhere.

By: Maria Sioco

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