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When my daughter was born one winter, my mother and father immediately got up from their southeast village and came to see the baby. They caught the first train in the afternoon and arrived the next morning. They went in, washed, and stopped at the entrance to the baby’s room. They had traveled with the slow camels of the Bulgarian trains all night, like the magicians. And they brought gifts, of course. Not exactly gold, frankincense, and myrrh, although my mother had taken off the gold earrings her mother had given her and was wearing them in a box. And some silver vapor. My father used to bring serum, which he himself had made from the first dogwood. And then I realized that this scene was not accidental. She, as Borges would say, comes to repeat another scene, another birth. And I realized something that probably all parents understand: every birth is a Christmas. A little family Christmas. Christmas for the family. A fragile victory for life.
I’ve never seen my parents like this
My mother and father stood ashamed and happy, like magicians, at the door of the nursery, with great admiration for the baby. I don’t know if that’s the correct word, but there was respect. And the baby was a bit like a coma, roaring, jaundice still intact. They lowered their heads and did something I did not expect, they wanted to kiss his hand. In a patriarchal culture like the Bulgarian, the opposite is often the case. The young man kisses the old man’s hand, the young man bows and pays homage to him. But this is how Christmas changes everything. They walked timidly, in so much fear, as if worshiping a man from another world. (And that, said between us, really came from another world. It took us nine months to get there).
I’ve never seen my parents like this. They used to be the best people I know, but they didn’t have much ceremony with us, it’s not like they pampered us, let alone kiss our hands. The Soc children were loved without much ritual, annoying children who need to know their place, and not adults. They only had to observe two or three important things: listen, study, not say outside of what was said at home. And if they didn’t want everything they saw in the store because they didn’t have enough money, we all knew it.
Everyone, even the poorest of us, has a memory of a Christmas in their childhood, even if it was hidden. My grandmother, as an orphan and foster child (given over to be raised by other people), said that on Christmas Eve she went to the fold, hugged a newborn lamb, and cried. He cried again, telling me, and he would never forget the lamb. Without realizing it, he was telling me a biblical scene.
I will never forget the Christmas tree that my mother and I decorated as children, with broken glass balls and real lit candles, nor will I forget how my father and grandfather entered the house with their fur coats and when they shook, the room was filled of snow. , nor will I forget how the stove and the lamp made a shadow theater… Or how I curled up in bed, listened to the adults or immersed myself in the newly received Andersen tales with the beautiful illustrations. There is no Christmas without the match girl, the wild swans, the brave leading soldier …
When my parents left that winter for the birth of my daughter, my father said in a low voice, just to me: to be alive another year or two, to be remembered by this child, I don’t want anything else. I was waiting for an operation. It was his dream, the idea of immortality or whatever you want: to remain in the memory of a child. And the miracle happened, the disease, for which no one gave hope, vanished. More than ten years have passed, my daughter is now grown up and my father is sure that he saved him.
The miracle is a very personal matter
These miracles are small and personal. All miracles are small and personal. I wanted to tell the story right now, when I fear the most for my loved ones. Sometimes you can only comfort and that’s it, say you love. There comes a day when we, who the rest of the time are everything else: bosses, subordinates, workers, journalists, underrated, offended, insulting, yelling and used, heroes and patriots, Bulgarians and Europeans, we can undress and leave everything in the corridor . Be children of our parents and parents of our children. That is why these vacations are pleasant. Because we celebrate the arrival of a child. And having a child, we all become children. And in fathers and mothers. They are all Jesus, they are all Joseph, they are all Mary. And this is not a sacrilege, it is the meaning and it is the miracle of life. And the miracle is a very personal matter.
Merry Christmas!
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