It seems somehow appropriate that I am sick on Christmas Eve, as I avoided illness (for the most part) fairly well in 2012. I’m sure I was sick at some point, but it clearly wasn’t significant as it hasn’t been remembered. Being sick on Christmas, though, that’s hard to forget. Yay.

I remember being sick on Christmas when I was a kid. I think I was really sick, as I remember being in the car on the way to my aunt and uncle’s house and having the feeling that my hands were inflated like balloons (an unpleasant feeling I remember having often when I was sick as a child). I don’t remember anything else about the day, but the memory of sitting in the back seat of the car as it drove down Basset Road is palpable.

Which is, really, how we remember most of our lives — distinct fragments amongst a lot of blur.

It often feels like the best Christmases are in the past, but — really — it often feels like the best everything is in the past, and that can’t possibly be true. As I’ve gotten older, I’ve realized that the moments of true happiness are the ones that I’m not comparing to the past because I’m too distracted by the present to think about it. They don’t come very often, particularly when you’re holding on as tightly as I have been lately, but they do come, and they give me the perspective I wish I always had.

If I’m still sick when I wake up tomorrow I will likely remember this Christmas for being sick, which is not ideal, but I guess it’s better than not remembering at all.

If that makes any sense.

Merry Christmas, you.

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