Christmas in Chile

It was December 25th, 2001. It was hot. My dress clung to me like a damp rag and my hair was heavy and thick against my neck. This year's tree was standing on aspen floors, a bedraggled stick with embarrassed, stubby branches. Underneath, next to the large soft stones propping it up lay about seven or eight messily wrapped packages. Padding quietly into the large open living room, I surveyed the scene. Our excuse of a Christmas tree seemed foreign, as was the gaudy holiday wrapping. Every year since my birth we had celebrated this day - yet every year I had gleefully emerged from my room wrapped in a thick blanket or sweater. I looked down - the short red cotton dress I wore barely covered my bony brown knees. Through the oak-framed window lay groves of deciduous trees and a sparkling lake, laughing in the sunshine. The sun had not yet reached the middle of the clear azure sky, and was beating relentlessly, playfully, against the short yellow beach down the way. A Christmas tree. A beach. Chile. It was twisted, contorted, bungled up,  - 

"It's so backwards, huh?"

Nathan had appeared behind me, voicing my next thought. Forgetting about Christmas, we quickly threw on our swimsuits and ran out to the creaky wooden rowboat in front of the cottage. Haphazardly splashing our way 100 meters down the bay, we arrived at the grainy beach, already soaked and giggling. Immediately we were surrounded by small eager nut-colored kids, begging for a ride in the boat. Rowing circles around the cove, slipping in our seats from the water sloshing over the sides, romping half-naked in the calm cool water with Mom slowly, thoroughly burning her skin as she lazily dozed off on the sand, we spent Christmas morning. It was not Christmas, though. It was a summer July day only pretending to be my favorite winter holiday. Later, I opened a white-and-red teddy bear and ruby earrings. Nick and Nathan got Doritos and squirt guns, all we could find for them in the tiny fishing town. I sat on the steps outside, leaning back against the cedar door and munching the orange from my stocking. The last of the Christmas summer light still beamed faintly onto our tiny tree.