Today has been a busy, busy day.

But I do love the hum of the shops at Christmastime, the way that voices work their ways in between the shelves and packages. The slush of the roads after too many cars drive on them-- the hues of scarves and sweaters brilliant against industrial carpet-- could anything be finer? When I stop by Bath and Body Works for a present for my mum, the scents of cotton blossoms and night blossoms, juniper and vanilla creme, crammed together and falling carelessly on passerbys. For my dad, gold-striped boxes of candy from See's, and I just can't resist the black-and-white tiled floors and glass displays, and somehow succumb to the samples of chocolate truffles the sweet old ladies (is it a requirement that one must be kindly creature over sixty to work at a candy shop?) Books for my sister and one brother-- The Princess Diaries for Rosie, along with Falling Angels, because I know we both love Tracy Chevalier (books are rather communal gifts as far as I'm concerned) Hitchiker's Guide to the Galaxy (the complete set-- could I give anything else?) for Sandy, and Yugi cards for K.K.-- bags crammed with purchases.

When I come home, I've got two friends waiting for me, taking me off to see The Two Towers as an impromptu Christmas present for my brother and me, and we spend the next three hours waiting in line, sneaking in lemonades and bags of candy from K Mart under our coats, smirking at the later arrivals from our proud seat at the very front of the lines. Then, the movie, and the Tolkein purists whine, and the rest of us just enjoy it and roll our eyes at their impossibility (I maintain purism for Jane Austen and Harry Potter alone-- my apologies to the rest of you deluded souls). I fall for Middle Earth again, the great swells of story against the backdrop of the rest-- and then, somehow, it's eleven o'clock at night, and I find myself driving along a darkened highway looking for Christmas lights, singing along to showtunes at the top of my voice.

Finals are over, one of my dearest friends has returned from a four month stay in China, and there is a pile of brightly coloured packages beneath the tree for me to unwrap on Christmas Day.

Life, my friends, is quite the wonder at times.

Norah asked after my Christmas dream a few days ago; it's been neglected for a while (what a strange phrase of time, so idle) now. At first because I wanted to forget, and then because I didn't want to remember. But now I want only to go ice skating under a soft snowfall, with delicate flakes of ice caught in my braids, shimmering underneath the harsh light of the rink. Music stealing in from a scratchy radio, delicate songs like Sarah McLachlan and Jewel as I glide around the edges of the ice. A makeshift heater beneath my hands, warmth flowing through rough wool and smooth leather. Watery and bittersweet hot chocolate in a styrafoam cup. Roasted chestnuts in little paper sacks from the funny, bent old woman in a dark green sweater. Peppermint sticks, soft and crumbly underneath my tongue. Bright, velvety bursts of poinsettas sitting on the concrete corner as I round it, swinging on the chilled metal poles and throwing my arms out in a purely kinetic pose. Stopping by shops and rummaging through bookshelves. The clang of the train as it stops downtown. The smooth fall of the water in the wishing stream in the mall disrupted by pennies plunging to the speckled blue floor as little children toss them in, sucking on a miniature candy cane all the while. The twists of false greenery and enormous ribbons on the escalator rails are rough beneath my fingertips, and I breathe deeply, the mingled scents of perfume lingering on the flush of cold air from the doors. Coming home to the bright twinkles (for they do twinkle in a Victorian fashion, there's no contemporary hope for them) of Christmas lights to family and home.