THE SUN had set long before Yana’s mother called out to her from the yellow-gated apartment of her cousin’s home, a cacophony of a sorbetero’s bell, hula hoop beads and strolling bikes filling the subdivision; the discord of noise a strange, comforting presence in the December air.
Santa Claus figurines lined up by the altar next to a crucifix, an open-lit candle in the middle of it all, the faint blue of the flame inviting and warm. In the living room of the house, Yana and her cousins debated over the kind of Christmas gifts they were about to unwrap later on: one answered, “the usual Daily Scent cologne set from Bench,” as a chorus of laughter followed after.
As they continued to entertain themselves with inquiries normal for a 10-year-old, most of the adults in the house were busy plating their food: carbonara, holiday ham, barbecue on stick and kakanin. It was not like their holiday feast menu changed every now and then—in fact, it was more anticipated despite its regularity.
Yana’s grandfather stayed seated on the living room couch, his old, cranky mini-radio echoing along with the blast of her cousin’s Christmas songs. Her grandmother sat beside him, holding up a mirror, attempting to draw a wing on her eyelid. Meanwhile, Yana’s sister has occupied herself with playing on their shared Nintendo DS, aggressively ‘stirring’ her pot in Cooking Mama.
Just as Yana leaned in closer to gaze at herself on an ornament’s reflective surface, the Christmas lights wrapped around the tree flickered and died, all heads turning to her.
Not her fault, really. F
