It felt constricted, now that I think about it. Our apartment was a neat little den of memories, nestled third-story in the busiest boulevard of a diverse Queens, NY, but it had one fault: there was barely any air flow. 

Yet, on those Christmas nights, dying to peer out the narrow creak of air that I could manage, an inhalation of frosty magic that was the bustle of New York City; the clamor of children and adults alike; the billowing of splinting wind; and the radios of Christmas carols of passersby cars, met the warm, tangerine air of our interior. I dreamt of stopping by the Lego store in the local mall, incessantly reminding my parents that buying more wouldn't hurt, that compared to Amazon and Toys R Us, the Lego store down the street was both a great money and time saver.

However, tonight I stand alone; it’s Christmas Eve, and my parents have just gone out. Peering out the second-story window of our new house, I stand there absorbing the massive view, adorned with much more than our previous window: a new film, a panoramic view, and most importantly, a gush of constant wind. Cranking open the window, the wind hits instantly, enough for a faceful of pulsing, cooling relief. However, this time, there was no action. I had never realized how much I missed the city.

The transition from the city to rural Long Island wasn’t a joy to me, seeing that we were moving into a much larger house, as much as it was a burden. For the first time ever, I felt insecure, both about my appearance, with kids talking about my haircut and ears, and my ability to fit in. From the first of September to the final Friday before December break, I had felt crushed; it was a real struggle, not knowing who people were, who was nice and who wasn’t. My relief came eventually, in the familiar forms of Mariah Carey’s “All I Want for Christmas Is You” and the all too ubiquitous “Jingle Bell Rock.” At least I had some sort of continuity going on in this new life.

I was eight at that time, and Christmas was always a bit alien to me. My parents had always celebrated Christmas without much forethought. The Christmas days barely strayed from our usual schedule: the only difference was the bling of little presents, from a basketball that I had seen in Costco the other day to a giant box of gummy bears that I had found in Target. I had never gotten the concept of Santa; that, I guess, could be the fault of my parents, as they had spoiled the fact that Santa wasn’t real the moment I knew of Christmas’s origin. Nonetheless, they still intimated that fulfilling a request would defeat the entire purpose of the holiday, which was joy in the form of surprise.

Just before my parents left, they had told me to just stay put, knowing I feared being alone, especially during night time. I had always coped with this fact by turning the TV on and cranking it to its maximum volume. That night, I had Jessie on, one of my all-time favorite Disney shows. It was one of the few constants I bore with me from my previous home. Alone, in the dimly luminated depth of my living room, I lolled back on the couch, letting the TV’s audio soak into my bloodstream, blanket over my chin, cereal in my left hand, remote in my right. As the clock approached 10:00 PM, I grew tired, still wondering where my parents were, as they had promised to be back by now. I didn’t bother calling since I had already gotten the urge to go upstairs to sleep. Walking up the stairs, I turned on the heater and began to head to my room. However, I still felt scared and was now praying that my parents would come home soon. Walking over to my mother’s bedroom, where I could see the entire front of my house, including my driveway, the streetlights, and the lawn, I looked down at my toes, then looked up out the window. Nothing moved, just the occasional car treading down the crunchy snow laid uniformly throughout the street. A dimly lit street juxtaposed with the freshly fallen snow, I thought back to my first-grade self, wondering about the origins of Christmas and how my presents always arrived on time—and in the same cardboard Amazon package. Only then did I think back to how that life would never come back to me, how my previous friends would have probably long forgotten me, and how toilsome it was going to be from now on, needing to fit in, having tried so hard to do so during the last few months.

I lost my view that night we moved. My view of a childhood fairy tale would be forever lost. Here started a journey, with preschool fears of making true friends beginning anew. Here marked a divot in all those friendships, from ones with whom I befriended at school to ones I met at the local park, I left behind when I left.

Staring out the window, breathing in the stinging December air, I lean back on my mother’s bed with my hands in the pockets of my pajamas, and I hum a little tune. I hum a tune that I once heard during the days of kneeling on our old red couch, seeing all I can see out that creased apartment window. Lying down, with my head normal to the house’s ceiling, I hum until I fall asleep. This was the first time I fell asleep on Christmas Eve. I needed a rest.