The Vietnamese Boston Winter

There is something about winter that reminds me of Christmas in Vietnam back in 2002. Could it be the crispy air, the frigidness that paralyzes my bare feet, or the tangible dryness of which I dread? No, it is the palpable affection between my mom and I. I experienced a sudden childhood reminiscence as I ran across the kitchen and into my mom’s welcoming arms. It was no different seven years ago when my mom held me closely by her side, with her soft, oversized wool sweater, emitting the most loving warmth to my frozen hands that any seven-year-old could imagine. Still, I remember the smell of J’adore that seemed to alleviate my fears and nightmares when I hug her. It was 2 am on Christmas Day that I was awoken by the crackling sound of present wrappers. I opened my eyes. There my mother was, turning around, and giving me a worried look. I then got off my bed, and walked towards her. She handed me a present. It was a Cinderella coloring book with stickers. As she looked at me when I stared wildly at the precious gift, she told me that it was from Santa Clause. Naïve and oblivious I was, I thanked my mom and went back to sleep. Somehow I always knew that the present was not from Santa Clause. I just never understood the joy of having a gift from the corpulent old man instead of from my own mother.