Christmas in my childhood unfolded slowly and sweetly in Marinduque, measured not by clocks or calendars but by laughter that lingered, lights that stayed on, and the long, delicious wait for midnight. Even when I was studying in Manila, December meant going home, where the air felt lighter and time seemed to stretch, allowing every small moment to matter.
Long before Christmas Eve, the house of our grandparents would already be alive with relatives — cousins arriving one by one, voices overlapping, and my brother always at my side. Together, we turned ordinary days into endless games, playing inside the house until our legs were tired and our throats were hoarse from laughing.
As Christmas Eve approached, the excitement grew. The waiting itself became the celebration. We played sungka, card games, taguan, told stories, teased one another, and invented contests simply to make the hours pass faster. Midnight on 24 December felt impossibly far away, yet we welcomed the wait because it meant more time together. My brother and I, surrounded by our cousins, shared secrets and dreams, unaware that these simple moments would one day become precious memories.
When midnight finally came, there was a quiet shift in the air as we enjoyed the Noche Buena together. It was Mass for our family in the early morning of Christmas. Inside the church, everything felt solemn and sacred. The familiar hymns, the gentle rhythm of prayer, and the collective silence of the congregation gave Christmas its deepest meaning.
Listening to the Mass on the morning of 25 December reminded us that the celebration was not just about play or food, but about faith, gratitude and togetherness. After Mass, the joy returned in full. Christmas Day was filled with shared meals, laughter, and more games — some new, some the same ones we played every year. Yet the celebration did not end on that day. Christmas was a season, not one single day.
From then until 1 January, the house remained open, welcoming relatives and neighbors. Each day felt like an extension of Christmas itself. My brother and cousins and I continued our routines: playing under the sun, resting in the afternoons, and gathering again in the evenings to talk and laugh. There was no rush to grow up, no sense that time was slipping away. The days blended together, bound by family, faith, and familiarity. New Year’s Day arrived much like Christmas had — through waiting, shared anticipation, and another walk to church, closing the season the same way it began.
Looking back, those Christmases in Marinduque were simple, but they were full. They taught me that joy does not come from extravagance, but from presence — from being with the people you love, holding on to traditions, and letting time slow down just enough to feel grateful for it all.
A Merry Christmas to all!