The holidays have an undeniable magical feel, a specific type of warmth that lingers in the air, borne by the whispers of tradition and the clamor of family. It was never just the seasonal cheer or the comforts of home that made the holidays so memorable, but the gathering- the reunion of loved ones from various walks of life, some from cities bustling with the weight of ambition, others from quiet corners of the world where time appears to move slower. But the heart of it all- the focal point of this great family reunion- was the village. The small village that felt like this center of the universe, where every road and path led to a gathering spot, where every home, each elder, carried with it a story, a lesson, and an unspoken connection to the past. 

I recall vividly the anticipation of family members gathering from far-flung locations, bearing gifts, food, and news. But beyond the surface was something deeper, something that held us all together in a common sense of belonging. My father’s presence as the patriarch of our family was the foundation of this unity. He was the one who would lead us all home to the village, his deep voice heralding tradition and his laughter the sound of comfort. And then there were the elders, with their walking sticks, their steady stride matching the rhythm of years well-lived, and their wisdom ingrained in every wrinkle, every motion. It was exciting to see them, and watch them navigate the familiar streets with quiet authority, their footsteps like a tickling of a clock that measured not just time, but the core of what it meant to be rooted in something greater than oneself. 

The village had a cyclical feel to it, as if the years were marked by the rhythm of nature, and the pulse of a family bound together by love and history. It was there that I learned the true meaning of community, resilience, and how the past impacts the present. The holidays, particularly those spent in the village, were a celebration of our deep connection to our roots. They were more than just snapshots in time, they were a reminder of what had come before, of the generations that had walked those trails before us, and of the inevitable passage of time. 

But as I reminisce on those holidays, I feel the weight of absence more acutely than ever before. The walking sticks can no longer be seen gently tapping against the ground; their owners have long since passed away. The elders, whose lives formerly constituted the very fabric of our family’s identity, are no longer with us, and neither is the sense of continuity nor assurance. My father, who once guided us all, has also passed away. His absence feels like a chasm, growing wider with each passing year, leaving an emptiness that nothing can fill. The village, once a bustling meeting place, now feels quieter, softer, as if the life that once thrived there has slowly dissipated, its pulse diminishing with each departure. 

The holidays, which were once full of promise now convey a sense of sadness. They are accompanied by a sense of loss, a recognition that the world I once knew- where childhood was distinguished by the presence of my father and the knowledge of the elders- is sliding further away with each passing year. Traditions that once seemed so solid, so inviolable are now tinged with the inevitable truth that nothing stays the same forever. The trill of the season, the delight of visiting loved ones, suddenly feels like an echo of something lost, something irretrievably gone.

I find myself looking for the comfort of those familiar faces, and the laughter that once filled the air, but all I can find are memories- fading but priceless, like photographs touched by time. The village, once teeming with life, now feels like a ghost of what it used to be. The elders, who once guided us with their gentle wisdom, have left us to carry on without them, and I’m left wondering what it means to perpetuate a tradition when the very people who gave it life are no longer present to share it with us. The walking sticks, long thought to be emblems of enduring power, now reflect something else: the passage of time and the inevitability of loss. 

But there is a peculiar kind of grace to this melancholy. Perhaps it is the realization that life with all of its beauty and pain, continues forward whether we are prepared or not. Perhaps it is the recognition that while the Christmas season has evolved, it remains a celebration of life-  a celebration of the experiences we had, the lessons we learnt, and the ways in which those lessons continue to mould us, even in the absence of those who taught them. The village, maybe quieter now, and the walking sticks may rest, but the spirit of those who came before us lives on, not only in the traditions they passed down, but also in how we carry their legacy forward. 

And so, as I prepare for another Christmas season, I find myself no longer journeying back to the village. This decision has a bittersweet taste to it, as though I am finally stepping into the realm of adulthood, where I no longer tread the same paths I once did, where I have become a witness to the fading echoes of my childhood. The familiar roads that once led me back to the village now appear distant and less urgent. It is a buzzard and surreal realization, but I sense the weight of it all, perhaps it’s time to let go. I no longer return to the village, not out of love or desire, but because I have changed, and my role in the family, in the legacy has shifted. I am now part of the new generation, one that preserve memories but no longer pursues the same routes. The passage of time has subtly redefined my priorities, and in this transition, I recognize that while the past is always with me, my journey forward now has a different rhythm, fashioned by the person I’ve become. 

And yet, there is a part of me that hopes my children would one day make the same adventure. I wait for them to carry on the traditions, to create their own memories, and find their own delight in roaming the village streets, feeling the pulse of life that once filled the air. Perhaps it is in them that the genuine legacy will live on- not only in the stories I pass down, but in the ways they live those stories. The path may change, but the essence of what we treasured- unity, love, and a link to the past - will endure, finding a home in the hearts of the next generation. 

In the end, what we remember is not the walking sticks or the elders themselves, but how they made us feel- how they taught us that the holidays were never just about the presents, food, or decorations. They were about the people, the connections, and the love that bound us all together. And while those ties may seem different now, and the faces may change, the love remains. It is my late father’s memory, the traditions he nurtured, and the way we continue to honour those who came before us. It is in the way we gather, still, when the walking sticks rest. It is in the way we carry the past with us, even as we move into the future, knowing that the essence of what once was is never truly gone- it lives in us. And while I may no longer make the journey to the village, a part of me still wishes that my children will one day walk those trails, experiencing it all with fresh eyes, and a new thrill, just as I once did.