Entry IV: Noel, The Wintering Memory

Recorded by Aisling, Keeper of Memories

Some memories do not speak in words. Most sing. On the most enchanted nights, a few only speak in the language of embodiment, of sensation; they exhale in mist, shiver in the chill air, curl in chimney smoke, shimmer in snowfall, and sigh with the trees. Noël is one such memory.

I found this memory deep within the Grove’s boreal forest. I sat tucked beneath a bough of spruce, wrapped in the quiet of winter’s first snowfall. A biting wind sent tingles through my face that were replaced with a blushing warmth. Suddenly, the air pulsed with anticipatory energy and a rift appeared. It tore easily through time and space as if someone split an invisible seam in the air just an arm’s length before me. The weave of a memory began to flow through and form a celestial seed. Its golden glow revealed that this seed emerged from joy. I grasped the seed just as it solidified and felt my body leave the Grove. Suddenly all was quiet and dark.

I felt the memory begin to seep into my bones. With my eyes still closed I cherished the feeling of familial warmth: a sizzle of cinnamon wafted through the air. Cardamom followed. The well-remembered voice of an old man spoke a blessing. A spark of clove crackled over my tongue. The warming spices, the heralds of winter gatherings. They felt like laughter shared by hearth light. Peppermint laced this moment like ribbon held in boughs of holly, not loud, but bright. The crisp feeling of flushed, snow-kissed cheeks connected my body to this memory.

I held joy in my palms: a child cradled in woolen blankets, watching frost adorn the window. A candle flickered. The familiar old man, wrapped in a quilt, hummed an old hymn. I rocked softly in a chair by the hearth. The child slept soundly in my arms. The old man approached, leaned down and, pressed a lingering kiss to my forehead.

“I know, dad, I wish she were here too.”

“You always know what I’m thinking, do you?”

“You’re predictable,” I smiled.

“I guess that’s not a bad thing to be,” He winked at me, then turned his attention to the baby in my arms. “Hello, Rose, I’m so happy to meet you.”

“I’ll be happy to let you hold her as soon as she wakes up. I’m sure she’ll have plenty to say to her grandpa.”

“Oh, I’m sure she will.” He paused. “Would you like a cup of tea?”

I looked up, warmth blossomed in my chest. “I would love that.”

I watched closely as my father opened the cabinet and pulled out a jar of honey, dried rosemary, and thyme.

I looked through the window, icy patterns still spreading across the glass. The world outside, cold and glittering. The world inside, alive with warmth. The two dancing together, fire and frost, nostalgia and renewal.

I closed my eyes and savored the moment. When I opened them I was back in the Grove. I dusted the snow from my coat and journeyed until I found a clearing in the trees. I planted the seed. This one would grow tall. A memory this potent always needs a bit more space to flourish. I watered the seed, sang the hymn I heard in the memory’s embrace, and stepped back. The memory tree danced from the ground. I offered the tree a memory of mine in return for the one it gifted me. It was my memory of learning the song of winter solstice from my mother. She so seldom sang, but she always did for the winter festival. At once, I knew the true name of this tree, Noël. I spoke its name, and the branches shivered. I tapped the tree for ichor as I sang. Then, turning toward the moon, I followed my footprints back home.