Credit to Drew Johnson

It’s strange that such a crowded neighborhood could sound so quiet during the most wonderful time of the year. What’s even stranger is that I’m sure a certain little house in the middle of a highway was bustling with excitement.
My mom said it would be better for us to move to a place where there were more kids, a place where I could leave the porch without the fear of stepping too far and being bombarded by car horns and traffic. However, the crickets that rang in my ears as I opened gifts on Christmas morning made me question her reasoning.

If it were a good Christmas, I would be opening the door for caroling neighbors. If it were a good Christmas, my cousins and uncles would be at my side. This year wasn’t like that. After we opened presents, I was sent to my room for throwing a tantrum.

This was a horrible Christmas.

Nothing could undo my sorrow, not even the leftover cookies that Santa forgot to eat. It felt as if the Grinch had robbed our house and stole my heart. The dull white bulbs strung around the ceiling were nothing but empty shells of the colorful lights I used to help my neighbors hang up.

The next morning came, I marched down the stairs. I had enough of this sorry excuse of a Christmas. I was ready to protest, but when I reached the ground floor, my despair disappeared. In front of me were my cousins, my neighbors and the people I had deluded myself into thinking I lost. I sat down and began to laugh.

Everyone I loved surrounded me, and even though it was different than before, the joy was still the same. Christmas is something that is to be shared, not something to be ruined by a negative outlook. Now, I know that better than anyone else.