I remember not remembering anything about last Christmas. Not the books I read, not the films I saw, not the way I filled the long days of freedom. All I remember is that there was no snow.

This year, the first gift came on the morning of the Christmas Eve – a thick smooth blanket of snow. The second gift are solitary morning walks in the forest. By miracle, there is almost no one around, except occasional winter running amateurs. There is almost total silence. The light snow covers every branch with a thin sparkling fabric. There seems to be no wind, but some undetectable gusts of it blow the snowflakes off the branches and make them dance in the air.

I come back home and think, no, the very first gift of Christmas is time, these few enchanted days when we can live as if nothing was happening. These gifts won’t be on sale tomorrow. They are not returnable. Better enjoy them.

Then, of course, my people in Kyiv have spent their Christmas Day sheltering from missiles. Every Christmas since 2022, every new year, I am wishing for this to end.