The sky to the north has turned an unworldly aquamarine as I drive home this evening from the Sanur beachfront, the cool hue belying the enduring heat of the day--32C still, at 7 pm, pressing down like sweaty hands on one's shoulders, cooking the rutty asphalt beneath the wheels. It is going on December 20th but there is no Christmas here. Not as I have known it, or knew it, for 55 years. And yes, I say this every year here in Bali, don't I? Every year I miss Christmas, it never comes. I should be pressing gloved hands together, retreating into a scarf like a turtle, stamping boot soles on frozen earth, watching my own breath float away in little clouds, wondering if my frozen nose will soon fall off. Ah Christmas! Every cold color of the Christmas lights shivering on the house fronts against the chill, gathering the blue and red and green strength to shine on. Ice on the ground, ice on the steps, ice sickles of the eaves of the house. That's Christmas. And the humidity is not without, but within, where a fireplace crackles and baked breads and cookies scent the air and the windows fog and frozen coats drip on the backs of chairs. Here is the proper, and only, warmth of December.
1 comment:
Nice, can tell your snow globe lives on inside where your hearth still crackles.
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