Things have been quiet lately.
Sometimes the lull of February can seem grey and lifeless. Especially when Valentine's Day rolls around. Most of your friends are out on the town with their significant other and you find yourself with a box full of chocolates and your favourite rom com. At least, you would if you didn't live at the Station. At the Station we celebrate the only other holiday so full of happiness and cheer, that it overshadows any thoughts you might have had about some thing that happens on some day some time. Thus Second Christmas was born. Second Christmas is even better than its former competitors in Kevan's humble opinion, for instead of what any other north american family would do at Christmas time, the Station has its own traditions. We took Second Christmas to be a portal back into the 1900's where the trees are real, light was brought to the home by candles, and everyone made their gifts. Especially at the Station. The whole point of us being together in one home is to create something, beautiful or not has nothing to do with it, but just to create. Music, art, musical art; the works. On the night of Second Christmas we were all gathered in the commons, basking in the candlelit glow of our magnificent live tree. A few brave souls had protested at even the thought of cutting down a tree for our own selfish pleasures of enjoying its beauty for a few weeks before it died and was thrown away. A popcorn and cranberry garland was sown, a dark satin tree skirt draped about the trunk. It was magnificent.
Kevan cleared his throat and every voice died down in an instant.
"Dearest friends and family, there are many things from which I might have derived good by which I have not profited, I dare say. Second Christmas is among the rest. I am sure I have always thought of Second-Christmas-time, when it has come round-apart from the veneration due to its sacred name and origin, if anything belonging to it can be apart from that-as a good time; a kind, forgiving, charitable, pleasant time; the only time I know of, in the long calendar of the year, when men and women seem by one consent to open their shut-up hearts freely, and to think of people below them as if they really were fellow-passengers to the grave, and not another race of creatures bound on other journeys. And therefore, friends, though it has never put a scrap of gold or silver in my pocket, I believe that it has done me good, and will do me good; and I say, God bless it!"
As he finished a huge shout of celebration filled the room, almost blowing out the candles in its vigour. Kevan turned to me, raised his steaming hot mug of hot chocolate and smiled.
"God bless it everyone!" I finished.