text: “I need new shoes.” I mumbled to myself, as I stared down at my black Chuck Taylors; proud of how worn and lived in they were and disgusted at how worn and lived in they were. Cigarette ash fell from my burning cigarette and landed on the top of my right shoe. I kicked my foot in the air to knock the ash off and watched as it floated to the snow covered bush next to the steps where I was sitting. I took one last drag and flicked my cigarette into the snow. I had just finished my second cigarette and I was ready for a third. “I will lie awake and lie for fun, and fake the way I hold you, let you fall for every empty word I say.” I sang along with Brand New, as it played from the speaker on my iPhone, watching the smoke escape my lips as I sang each word. My feet were so cold I couldn’t feel my toes. It was around 3:00 am Christmas morning, and 23 degrees outside. I remember this because when I opened the front door to leave my apartment earlier that afternoon, I only had on my black hoodie that I bought from Vegan Treats on Linden Avenue. I took two steps outside, realized how cold it was, and went back in my apartment to put on a jacket instead. I opened the weather app on my phone to see what the temperature was, and after seeing 23 degrees, I realized that gloves would be beneficial if I wanted to keep fingers attached to my palms. You wouldn’t have known it was Christmas by walking into my apartment. I didn’t have a Christmas tree or decorations anywhere. I received a box of Christmas presents from my parents in Florida the week prior, but they were still sitting in the brown box they arrived in. I took off my hoodie, and put on my jacket, watching in the mirror as I changed. I had on too much makeup. Specifically, too much eyeliner, but that’s how I liked to wear it. My once beautiful, sparkling, big, brown eyes were now small, sad, and almost black, hidden behind cheap Covergirl eyeliner. It was Christmas Eve, and I was trying to forget. I looked at myself one last time, realizing that the most festive thing about me was the 2-week-old, red, chipped nail polish on my nails. I didn’t always dislike Christmas, in fact it was my favorite time of year, until I moved from Florida to Pennsylvania. I sought after something that I wasn’t getting in Florida, and even though I kept in touch with my family, I wasn’t nearly as close to them as I was when we lived in the same state. I wanted to see what it was like to watch tree leaves turn orange, feel snow, and wear boots for a purpose other than fashion. I wanted to wear a puffy coat and gloves and parallel park. I wanted real independence, and big city life. I got all those things. Yet, even though I was surrounded by people, living a fast, free, independent life, I had never felt more alone, and isolated. The holiday season was no longer something that I looked forward too. In reality, I dreaded it. As a child, Christmas was always a magical time of year for me. My parents loved Christmas, but it was my mother who really brought the magic of Christmas to life. She made it very clear to all of us when we were little that the year we stop believing in Santa, was the year that he would stop coming to our home to bring us gifts. This was a frightening thought, because every year we received a mountain of gifts that adorned colorful tags labeled “Love: Santa”, so questioning the validity of his existence would have been foolish. Our Christmas Eve traditions were sacred, and they weren’t broken until I moved out as an adult. We watched Home Alone, secretly envying Kevin McAllister for living in NY, seeing snow on Christmas, and having that huge house to himself. We always thought of different traps he could have set for the robbers, with each idea more elaborate than the year before. We baked Chocolate chip cookies for Santa and cut carrot sticks for his reindeer. I made sure to pick out the biggest cookies, with the most chocolate chips, and least crispy edges for Santa to enjoy. The year that my sister learned about Diabetes, was the year that she insisted we give him a healthier option. This is when the tradition of sliced apples with a sprinkle of cinnamon was born. I would arrange the plates with our treats just so, making Santa’s place setting look as though it appeared in a holiday magazine. We would put on our Christmas pajamas, and read The Night Before Christmas by Clement C. Moore before going to bed to lay painfully awake for hours. We made sure to use the restroom and have our last sips of hot chocolate for the evening before retiring to bed because once we shut the bedroom door, we couldn’t leave until morning. My brother, sister and I would all sleep in my room on Christmas Eve, whispering excitedly about the gifts we prayed to get under the tree. We hoped that we would get the smallest glimpse of Rudolph’s nose if we peeked out the window at just the right time. Some Christmas Eve’s we would see a red light blinking in the sky, and even though we knew it was an airplane, we would still jump back in bed and hide under the covers, just in case. Santa and his team usually arrived at our house around 2:30-3:00 am. We know this because we would hear sleigh bells jingle outside, starting at the back of the house where my bedroom was and grow fainter as they travelled the length of the house. The temptation to peek through the blinds was almost unbearable, but the thought of Santa leaving without dropping even a single peppermint was much worse. At first ring of the bells, we would lie frozen in my bed under the covers, unable to move. Our hearts pounding with excitement, accompanied by just the tiniest amount of fear because we knew we were supposed to be sleeping. It felt like Christmas Eve was 90 hours long and daylight would never come. Eventually when it did, I would fly out of bed and slowly open my bedroom door to peek into the living room. Every year it was the same sight, a halo of lights illuminating a mountainous circle of holiday wrapped presents, stacked as if they were a gate protecting a Christmas tree fortress. I would wake up my brother and sister, and once we were all lined up at my bedroom door, we would quietly tip toe to the tree where we would sit Indian style in front of it, just taking in the glory of the sight before us. Yet, there I sat numb, physically from the cold and emotionally frozen, wishing I were anywhere else but sitting on those cold, concrete steps. I didn’t want to go inside because all I had to greet me was a half empty bottle of Jack Daniels, and I was really struggling with that thought. I was filled with anxiety and even though I just smoked two cigarettes, I needed a third to help muster up the courage needed to enter that building. I opened my pack of camels, took my upside down, lucky cigarette and set it on fire. I took my first drag and exhaled a thick white cloud of smoke, hoping my uneasiness would float away with the smoke. I grabbed my iPhone and changed the song to Absinthe Party at the Fly Honey Warehouse by Minus the Bear and sat it down on the step beside me. I was lost, alone and angry. I needed a reminder of why I was in Pennsylvania, and that song was my anthem. Halfway through the song, my phone rang. It was an unknown number. I wasn’t going to answer it, but since it was approaching 3:00 am on a holiday, I knew it wasn’t a marketing call. “Hello?” I asked, wondering who would be calling me at this hour. There was no response. “Hello?” I asked again, ready to hang up on the phantom caller; then I heard the jingling of bells. My heart stopped, and I couldn’t breathe. It felt like my throat was on fire and my eyes filled with tears that fell instantly. I took the last puff of my cigarette before flicking it into the snow with the others, and sat on that cold stoop crying, listening to the faint jingling of those bells. I tried to say, “I love you, Mom.” But there was no courage in my voice, no sound came out. She hung up the phone, and Minus the Bear picked up mid song where they left off. My Mom sent her Christmas magic to me over 1000 miles away. To her it was just a childhood tradition that she thought would make me laugh. To me, it was a beacon in the dark. My fear of going inside alone, and facing Christmas alone was no longer a concern. I wasn’t alone, and her one small tradition turned my worst Christmas ever, into the most meaningful Christmas of my life. I grabbed my phone and decided that it was time to go inside, and open that big brown box of Christmas presents. Thank God I did, there was a new pair of Chuck Taylors waiting for me.