When I think about Christmas, I don’t first remember the gifts, or the food, or even the tree. I remember a window, old, wooden, slightly chipped on the corners, and the sock I used to hang there every December. It was one of my father’s long white socks, the kind he wore to work. But in my childhood eyes, that sock was a beacon. A signal. An invitation for magic to stop by. That window faced the street, just above a small patch of garden my mother kept alive with more hope than gardening skills. Every night leading up to Christmas, I would stare at the window as if it were a portal. That was where Santa would pause, just for a moment, long enough to drop something inside the sock before flying off to someone else’s home. My mother never corrected the geography of my fantasy. She never told me Santa came through chimneys or that stockings were supposed to hang by the fireplace. We had no chimney, and our small home wasn’t built for the traditions I saw in storybooks. Instead, she simply smiled, handed me a clothespin, and helped me clip my chosen sock to the window frame. What I didn’t know then, but understand now, is that she was letting me build my own version of magic.
Those nights were filled with a kind of quiet anticipation only childhood can hold. I would lie awake in bed, pretending to sleep, listening for sleigh bells that never rang and footsteps that never came. And yet, the magic felt real. More real than anything I could touch. Sometimes I would sneak out of bed, tiptoe to the window, and stare at the sock, expecting it to suddenly glow or move or drop with the weight of a gift. It never did. But the hope, the hope was loud. There was one Christmas Eve I remember more sharply than the rest. The air was colder than usual, and the neighborhood seemed unusually still. My mother was finishing chores. My Father was repairing something in the living room. I had already hung my sock hours before, smoothing it down carefully as if Santa would judge the neatness. I sat by the window, knees tucked to my chest, watching the empty street outside. My mother passed by at one point, wiping her hands on a dish towel. “Waiting?” she asked gently. I nodded without taking my eyes off the dark.
She smiled, brushed my hair back, and said something I never forgot: “Magic always comes when you’re not looking.” So that night, I forced myself to sleep earlier than usual. And when morning came, I woke to the familiar thrill, the sock weighed down by something small, something mysterious, something perfect. I remember reaching inside and pulling out a handful of candies, a little red toy car, and a folded note with crooked handwriting: “Thank you for the sock!” I read that note over and over, the way you read a love letter without knowing it’s one. I didn’t realize then that the handwriting looked a lot like my mother’s. All I knew was that Santa had stopped at my window. Again. Years passed. Childhood receded. I stopped hanging socks in the windows. I stopped waiting for bells. Life grew heavier, louder, faster, so much more complicated than the soft rituals of December used to be. And then one day, without meaning to, I stumbled upon the truth.
I had asked my mother where she kept the old Christmas decorations, hoping to find something sentimental for my own home. She handed me a worn box, the lid almost falling apart. Inside were ribbons, tiny ornaments, faded cards, and tucked at the bottom, the same white sock. My father’s sock. My Santa socks. And that was the moment the myth shifted. Suddenly, everything sharpened: the late nights, the quiet footsteps, the candies that always matched my favorites, the handwriting that I never questioned. It was the hands that cooked our meals, washed our clothes, and stayed up late wrapping gifts before the sun rose. It was love, simple, quiet, unglamorous love, disguised as magic. I sat there holding that sock, feeling something warm break open in my chest. I wasn’t disappointed. If anything, the real story was even more magical. Because the older I get, the more I understand what it means to create wonder for someone else, even when life is hard. It’s about love disguised as small acts.
Now, when December arrives, I find myself looking at the children in my family, my nieces, and my nephews, and feeling the urge to create that same quiet wonder for them. I wrap gifts after they fall asleep. I hide candies. I whisper stories. I make sure they have something to wake up excited about. And each time I do, I think of my mother’s hands, gently clipping that sock on the window frame with me. I think of how she never asked for gratitude. Never asked to be seen. Never asked for credit. She just made magic. And now, it’s my turn. Sometimes, I stand by my own window, lights twinkling around the sill, and smile at the memory of the child I once was, the one who believed in Santa stopping by a humble window in a humble home. I realize now that he did stop. Not because of reindeer or sleighs, but because someone I loved made sure he would.
The window hasn’t changed. The world has. But the magic? It lives on because now, I’m one of the makers. And that, I think, is the real miracle of December.
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