I miss Swedish Christmas. I do. I miss Lucia, I miss the lights everywhere, and I miss the snow. I found myself getting teary-eyed as I watched an online video of someone I don’t know, walking through snow. I miss that freezing, cold, dry air you get on a sunny winter day. I loved it as a kid. Strapping on my skis and going up and down the road, pretending to be an expert skier. The snow made the dark winters so beautiful. The quiet that comes with a deep layer of snow is just magical.

I sometimes daydream of becoming really wealthy and having a cosy hut somewhere where snow and the Northern Lights are guaranteed in December. Somewhere I could just pop to when I fancy a proper winter. My popping over to the hut whenever I fancy would inevitably contribute to the decline of our climate, and in the end, the hut would just be a sad little house in the rain. But I like to allow myself to dream as Christmas approaches. I allow myself to think of the squeaky sound of my boots walking through glittery snow on a cold day. I allow myself to think of Lucia mornings, frozen and pitch-black, with the sound of distant singing coming closer. Candles flickering, breath hanging in the hair. There is something otherworldly about the stillness of cold, snowy nights and singing together. I wish I could give the snowy winters of my childhood to my children; I wish I could experience them myself again.

So, I do what every self-respecting Swede will do. I wrap the twinkly lights around my windows, I roll the meatballs, I find a Swedish Christmas choir on Spotify, and if I close my eyes, I can see myself in that hut. And outside, it is snowing.

Gabi Froden

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