It is late Monday morning. The air is the cool. They say this is the coldest it will be all year here, yet I still find myself sweating. I sit inside my house, on the twin bed given to me by the Peace Corps, which I have transformed into a day bed. Hunched over the metal bucket I used to mix paint in the previous months. No painting today. Just small pieces of white paper—only paper whose sides have been completely been filled front and back—fall to the bucket. I will discard them later in my compost pile—or at least my attempt at one. I work swiftly and diligently, cutting one snowflake after another.
I remember in elementary school my teacher said, no two snowflakes are the same. Each one is its own unique shape. An amazing fact when you consider the number of snowflakes that have existed in the world. I do my best to vary my cuts, as to uphold the integrity of real snowflakes in my paper ones.
It is December 21st and aside from the calendar and reminders from the States it does not feel like Christmas time. I am grateful for the heat in part. It makes life feel like a permanent summer, and therefore makes Christmas feel far away. I almost feel silly cutting snowflakes, listening to “Winter Wonderland.” The only signs of winter are the Beninese people who wear giant winter coats in the morning these days. Barely below 70 calls for a parka here.
With each snowflake and each song I am reminded of all the Christmas’ of the past: The Christmas calendar on the door in the kitchen every year; decorating gingerbread cookies; leaving notes for Santa to sign to obtain proof of his existence; bon fires; watching “It’s a Wonderful Life” on Christmas eve; not being able to escape “A Christmas Story” on Christmas; and always cutting up snowflakes. I don’t think I ever realized how much I enjoy Christmas, and honestly it isn’t even the presents.
It’s 12:30 on Christmas Day. I am standing in my kitchen over the gas stove looking at sugar cookie dough in hopes they won’t slide across the pan in the Dutch oven like the first batch. My phone rings. Erin is working on making chipatis, and Clay is lying on the bed resting. I know who is calling me.
When I was a kid my family would get up really early to open presents. A great debate always occurred Christmas Eve on what time we’d rise. Of course my dad, who has always woke-up early, wants to sleep in. We normally settled on around 5:30 or so. My brothers woke first, and would have to make me up. My mom was easy to get up, but it would take a half hour or more to get my dad to get up. I remember times getting on the bed hoping up and down at the end of the bed, giggling, at his disgruntled looks.
“Merry Christmas,” says my mother as I answer the phone. “It smells like something is burning,” I say to Erin, throwing in a Merry Christmas mid-sentence to my mom. Feeling stressed, I ask if they are ready to open presents. I can tell from her voice though that she has just woke up, which means most likely everyone else is still asleep. Clay chimes in, “It smells like something is burning.” I feel flushed and annoyed, I tell my mom to call me back when they are ready, and that I am sorry.
A little while she calls back, the kitchen has calmed down a bit. Sugar cookies are piled on a plate now. It is finally time to open presents at 1:30 p.m. I don’t think I have ever waited to open presents this late before, but it is worth it to open them at the same time as my family. We always open our presents up one by one. I go first, and as everyone opens there presents, I try my best to make sure I take into account what everyone has received, via Skype—without video. It is comforting, being able to continue the timeless tradition. It’s like paper snowflakes in Africa. They can’t melt from the heat and they will never fall to the ground and loose their uniqueness.
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