Christmas comes and goes, year after year identical scenes only set in different towns and countries, always a green spruce, always real candles, always presents, handmade then, store-bought now.

I do not want to break tradition, rotate from household to household, put up electric lights, hand out gift certificates.

I am stubborn as an old ox, holding fast to the familiar story, reimagining my childhood world where constancy reigned, a bulwark against life's unpredictability.