I remember childhood Christmases of goat stew, tarragon and saffron bubbling in mothers’ and aunties cooking pots. I envision loaves of spelt sourdough baking in ovens whose warmth I can almost feel. My ears pick up on sounds that once lulled me to sleep-insomniac peacocks calling out into the night and tinny mandolins strumming gently in the nail-biting mountain air.
I cradle my rag doll—Hannah the Survivor—with my remaining hand. Christmas is different here.