Editor’s Note: All images were provided by the author.
Diego Rogelio Varela Lugardo (University of Pennsylvania)
Peppery and cinnamon would be the notes my family used to describe Christmas. My grandmother’s house had a chimney that made sure all of us were warm on Christmas. It used to take care of us with its distinct crackling sound while also providing the fragrance that we associate with winter.
But the fireplace did not only radiate warmth; it was also a place from which our imagination took off. We would play around it, giving shapes and forms to the noises that came out of it, even when it was turned off.
We would say that an owl lived there, as we heard the wind travel through the chimney like a breath too big for the house to hold.
The firebox had a glass door with a whimsical metal mesh to catch the ash. We would lie near it, as it was located on a lowered lounge with a soft beige carpet. Sometimes, we would even fall asleep there, using cushions as pillows.
We grew up believing in winter’s smell.
The cold would simply arrive and linger with us for the season. I still remember those days when classes would be cancelled due to the cold, and sometimes even water buckets would freeze if they were left outside. We would use gloves, scarves, beanies, and windbreakers. You could feel the cold in the tiled floors, with my mom scolding me for being barefoot and telling me that this was how sickness got to you: by being barefoot on a cold floor.
It was a yearly ritual to take all of these clothes out of the higher parts of the closets, usually stored in bags or boxes to prevent dust from settling on them. We never questioned getting them out; the only question was whether we would get them out by October or December.
Winters used to be cold, especially at night, when the minimum temperature averaged around 48°F. Now, the nighttime temperature averages around 58°F. While ten degrees might not sound like much on paper, it has had significant impacts on our Christmas rituals.
Ten degrees is the difference between fog clouding the windows, between sweaters and shirts, and between a smell and its absence.
This last Christmas, my family decided to go to a small ranch half an hour away from the city, thinking that it would be colder since we would also be seated outside. We all brought our ugly sweaters with us, innocently believing that the winter night would settle in. But sunset had already arrived, and everyone was still in their shirts. Those who had brought long sleeves would simply cuff them. We joked about it as the realization settled in.
But this was not simply an exception. As we joked, we realized that over the last two to three years, winter had not been as prominent as it used to be. When I was packing to go back last Christmas, my mother told me not to bring many sweaters and instead to bring shorts. I did not want to believe her, so I naturally brought my usual winter clothes. This was a crucial mistake, as last year Hermosillo broke a 30-year record for the hottest day in December, reaching 94°F on December 21.
The city I grew up in is not the same city I return to in winter.
Hermosillo has always been a desert city. Our summers usually reach over 110°F, but we always knew that. Winter was supposed to be the season in which we stopped negotiating with the heat that we were accustomed to. Summer would require you to adapt to it, to go out by sunrise or sunset, to wear sleeves to prevent sunburns. But winters were meant to be a time to relax, to invite people over for hot chocolate and sweet bread, to embrace the season and reclaim your day.
That peaceful feeling is now drifting away.
Winter is something that we have to negotiate over as the heat stays for longer, both arriving early and leaving late like an inconsiderate guest. Each year, winter cedes more of its much-needed time to its counterpart. But what people might not understand is that the heat affects our personalities. When it’s hotter, people tend to be more aggressive but also more forgetful. We would usually say that it dumbs you down as dehydration occurs, taking away from that Christmas charm and joy.
My grandmother’s fireplace is still there, sitting empty, with no wood nearby, as it has been out of use for a long time. The glass door still has some soot from the last time it was used.
As I finish this, I have realized that what I am missing is not the cold itself, but what it allowed: getting to go to school one hour later because of the cold, the fireplace being on and filling her home with an earthy scent, wearing those Christmas ugly sweaters.
It birthed a specific intimacy in which joy and celebration filled our minds and hearts; everyone moved slower and stayed for longer, as if the smoke-filled air called them.