Hovah Time moved slower as a child. It seemed to at least, especially during festive seasons like Christmas. It was the most wonderful time of the year. I say was because growing into a young adult has put certain things into perspective.
The wonder I felt as a child was not created by me but rather for me. The more I aged, the less wonder was made available for me. As I trudge along the dusty inroads leading to the major highway from which I hope to catch a taxi to work, I chuckle. I recall the sleeping face of my youngest brother and for a second, I envy him. Whatever cheer there is to be had, he will have no part in creating. His role is to embrace the different kinds of enjoyment I, alongside my parents, would make available for him. As he lays curled up in bed, he is unaware that his black clad big brother has stepped into the cold harmattan air, unexcited about the next eight hours withing which he would have to work to create Christmas cheer.
Not many aspects of my mind have space enough to accommodate the pleasure of the holiday season. Even Christmas songs are sung differently in my head;
Deck the halls with boughs of holly
Falalalala lalalala
Spending money is not funny
Nananana Nananana
Regardless of this, I am grateful enough for the ability to create wonder and joy and cheer. It is only fair that I do for others for similar grace was once extended to me. The pure, unadulterated beauty of Christmas exists in the memories of old. I consider it a divine mercy that a mind exhausted by the rigours of adulthood can still indulge the simple pleasure of remembering.