The Baby in the Manger

Every Christmas, my family comes together to attend my Aunt's evening mass in her home. Before an exquisite nativity scene of some ceramic with great detail. Where we sing softly of Jesus Christ and the fish in a river where a beautiful woman was brushing her hair, and at the end, we kiss the baby Jesus.

And when I'd been little at midnight I huddled around with my cousins-- the very best friends I still hold to my heart-- as we excitedly waited for midnight. As the time set by the adults that we could tear open our presents from a wide array of shiny wrapped packages under a grand tree.

It really looks like a toystore under my Aunt's tree. Since the whole family pitches in to trade gifts for cousins and aunts and sisters and their parents and the older kids to the younger kids.

What I want this Christmas is what I want every Christmas.

The warm light and steady, soothing hum of united prayer. Lilting singing voices as we celebrate Christ.

I want the burn of tamales on my tongue and the fill of posole and meatballs in my belly.

I don't even care all too much what I get under the tree. But I do especially love, when family members remember that I love wrapped ones the most since I get to tear into it.

I just want a singular night where our family is happy and talking, us kids holed up in a room with snacks talking about high school and college and romance, and the adults commandeering the downstairs with their gossip and "carcajeadas."