• White Christmas

My grandmother got an eagerly awaited big surprise for Christmas 1966, a real, vital, two and a half years old baby doll – me. I was the gift. I can’t remember the scene anymore. No pictures were taken on that day. My father was not my real father. My mother was not my birth mother. My grandmother was the mother of my mother. (That is not sure either). But they were giving me a home, a family, so I could get a sense for those family holidays. I love snow. I love listening to my own steps leaving traces in a virgin white cover of snow. I love the huge snow flakes landing softly on my face, their visible tarnsformation to tears through my body heat. No, I’m not crying. It’s snowing. It’s Christmas.