TWELFTH NIGHT

By: Oscar Méndez Cervantes

In the place of honor in the house, the Nativity scene for the Christ Child was a reflection of Glory, in the miraculous simplicity of its brief and meticulously crafted setting.

A gentle bank, on whose slope the Grotto and the Manger seemed—for the soul—a tiny resonating chamber, still trembling from the Christmas carol. Mary and Joseph, in loving adoration. The angelic concert, in impalpable fluttering, among the branches of resinous fragrances. Shepherds and flocks, populating slopes and hollows. Swans, on mirror-like lakes. Traditional huts, rising above the topographical grace of a small precipice.  Beside them, scratching through the carpet of hay and moss, roosters almost as large as the indigenous Xochimilca couple, with their tray of floral offerings and their basket overflowing with fruits that were anything but Palestinian, yet undeniably Mexican. Further on, above the roofs of a shingle-roofed hamlet, the bullfighters' entourage, circling the bull poised to charge, added a touch of festive traditionalism. In a secluded hollow—a reflection of the Sinai of the ascetics—the indispensable hermit pondered the grandeur of the Mystery and the fulfilled prophecies. A noble, shaggy dog ​​stood guard around the hermitic cave, keeping the prowling Evil One at bay: its body and wings stained—in the face of its failed attempts—a ridiculous, bilious green.

And above all, even higher than the spheres of multicolored lights, with a snowy fleece of frost clinging to its celestial tail, the radiant Star pointed to the place of adoration for the imminent and generous arrival of the Three Wise Men.

It was impossible for them to lose their way. Throughout the night of Epiphany, the star rested there, illuminating the sweet and traditional precision of that privileged corner of the home. Therefore, at the foot of the last slopes of the Nativity hill, the children sought refuge, their shoes resting, in anticipation of the—unfailing—gifts from Melchior, Gaspar, and Balthazar.

And what joyful anticipation filled us when, having delivered the classic begging letter—requesting an exorbitant list of gifts, enough to drain the coffers of all the Eastern kings—we retreated to the seclusion of our childhood beds, and, with the lights out, kept our senses alert and broke our whispers into silence at the slightest nocturnal noise. (“Could it be them?... No, it’s still too early!”) And a little later, we thought we could already discern the stealthy passage of the caravan: camel hooves striking the courtyard tiles, the clinking of silver-plated palfreys, the rustling of silks and purples, legendary, prestigious aromas of desert and oasis…

Finally, weariness overcame our vigilant alertness and closed our eyelids.  Then, sleep filled the room with the most wondrous visions, worthy of that land of plenty so vividly described in fairy tales: rivers of molasses cascading onto the floor; palaces of crystallized sugar where a magical light shattered into enticing iridescence; mechanical toys running noisily before the delight of entire regiments of lead soldiers; the elegant slowness of a sawdust and plush cat; and, on the corner shelf, the celestial notes of a music box serenading dolls with astonished blue eyes… And then, the wooden rifle, and the shadow puppet, and the picture book, and countless other marvels, all glittering, stirred by an indefinable pulse of life…

But the beauty of all those sweet phantasmagoria paled in comparison to the morning confirmation of the Magi's visit.  Ah, our boisterousness, our joy bursting forth in shouts, leaps, and races, with which, at the crack of dawn, we pierced the ears of the grown-ups! Beside the tally of obligatory new gifts lay the miraculous reality of the toy and the sweet treat, and this or that note, handwritten by Gaspar or Melchior, leaving greetings and hugs and promises for the best-behaved children in the coming year. From then on, the day unfolded in an enchanting succession of games and conversations among the children, who never tired of caressing the toy and consuming—in wise pauses—candies and doughnuts…

Blessed is our Tradition, which, in each of its nuances and expressions, from childhood to old age, adorns our lives with the gentle gift of its luminous enchantment!