Years that went before
Hung on a nostalgic wreath
Survival trophy.

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A Perfect Christmas I used to picture Christmas like a lifestyle magazine spread colour‑themed elegance, ornaments that murmured classy, a wreath so green and lush it practically exhaled pine‑scented superiority. Then we had kids. Suddenly the tree was a shrine to glitter blobs, lopsided stars, and ornaments that looked like they’d survived trauma. They chose the tackiest decorations with absolute conviction, as if moulded plastic were a moral imperative. And the wreath. My nostalgic wreath dreams of holly and fir and bows gracing Dickensian doors died the day we brought home cartoon snowmen grinning like they knew I’d never win again. But years keep passing by, and somehow that ridiculous wreath goes up every December. Loud, cheerful, unapologetic. I’ve learned to relinquish my magazine‑perfect fantasy for something far better. Now I love that wreath as much as Christmas itself.

A jolly Christmas wreath with three grinning snowmen

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Laying down one last
Nostalgic wreath, moving on
From grief to breathing.
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