24/12/2025
๐ฆ๐ฑ๐ ๐๐ฑ๐ป๐ฒ๐ผ๐ฝ๐ถ๐ช๐ผ ๐ฏ๐ฎ๐ฎ๐ต๐ผ ๐ญ๐ฒ๐ฏ๐ฏ๐ฎ๐ป๐ฎ๐ท๐ฝ?
When Christmas still felt certain, it arrived quietly but stayed everywhere. Parols blinked outside windows, their light soft against the December night. The scent of lumpia, bibingka, and freshly cooked dishes drifted from kitchens, settling into memory before anyone noticed. Jose Mari Chan played on repeat from radios, sari sari stores, and passing tricycles, his voice marking the season with comforting familiarity.
Days were shaped by anticipation. School Christmas parties filled classrooms with laughter, exchange gifts, and long tables meant for sharing. Evenings led into Simbang Gabi, where streets stirred before dawn and families walked together beneath dim streetlights, drawn by faith, tradition, and the quiet promise of something warm waiting afterward. The cold air carried the smell of p**o bumbong and coffee, and for a moment, the world felt gentle and unhurried.
Noche Buena brought everything together. Tables were never extravagant, but they were full of food, conversation, and people lingering past midnight. Time slowed as stories were told, laughter rose easily, and the year seemed to pause. Christmas felt complete then, held together by presence rather than perfection.
Now, Christmas arrives differently.
The same songs still play, but they sound distant, shaped more by memory than excitement. Parols still glow, though fewer lights stay on as long. Kitchens still prepare familiar dishes, but often in smaller portions, for fewer people. What once felt effortless now asks for intention.
Simbang Gabi is quieter now, shaped by busy schedules and tired mornings. Noche Buena is still observed, but time no longer lingers the way it once did. Responsibilities follow us into the season, and absences are felt more deeply than decorations can soften. The noise has faded into reflection.
And yet, something remains.
Christmas lives on in what we remember and in what we choose to keep alive, in shared meals, familiar melodies, and the soft glow of a parol against the night. It reminds us that joy does not disappear. It simply changes form and asks to be cared for.
Perhaps Christmas was never meant to stay the same. Perhaps it was meant to grow with us, shifting from noise to meaning and from abundance to gratitude. In remembering how it once felt, we learn how to carry it forward, gently and deliberately, into who we are now.
๐ ๐๐๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐๐ ๐ถ๐ฝ๐๐พ๐๐๐๐ถ๐, ๐ป๐๐๐ ๐๐ฝ๐ ๐๐ถ๐๐๐ถ๐๐๐ ๐ซ๐๐ท๐๐พ๐ธ๐ถ๐๐พ๐๐!๐๐ซ
Words by| Erika S. Tabiolo
Layout by| Thristan Keith
#๐๐ก๐๐๐๐ ๐ง๐๐ญ๐๐ฌ๐๐ฎ๐๐ฅ๐ข๐๐๐ญ๐ข๐จ๐ง
