Read by Matilda Longbottom

December has a way of arriving in a soft and unassuming way, as if carried in on the hush of snow-filled clouds. One morning you wake to see your breath in the air, the garden tucked under a blanket of frost, and that unmistakable feeling that something special is about to begin. There’s a certain shimmer to the world this time of year, a kind of everyday magic that seems to hang in the crisp air, mingling with the scent of pine and cinnamon.

I’ve always loved December for this very reason. It’s the month when time slows down just enough for us to notice things again. I revel in the glow of candles in a window, the laughter spilling from a neighbor’s doorway, and the way the streetlights catch tiny snowflakes as they drift down in the dark. Even the cold has a different feel, not harsh or lonely, but invigorating, reminding us that we’re alive and part of something shared.

It’s a season of gathering and giving. Friends drop by with tins of cookies and warm smiles. Families come together around tables bright with memories, stories retold, hands reaching for one another, and old recipes bringing comfort and nostalgia in equal measure. Even in the grocery store or on the street, there’s a softness in people’s faces, a readiness to smile at strangers or lend a hand. December seems to open hearts the way frost opens the soil: gently, quietly, but deeply.

And then there’s the promise of snow. I love how it transforms everything! The first true snowfall feels like a whispered blessing. Rooftops soften, branches lace themselves in white, and the whole world hushes under a glimmering quilt. Children press their faces to the window, dogs bound into the drifts with reckless joy, and even grown-ups can’t help but feel that old spark of wonder. There’s something about snow that brings out the child in all of us, that sense that the world can still surprise us.

For me, December is more than the end of a year; it’s a gentle reminder of what connects us. It’s found in the clink of mugs filled with hot cocoa, the rustle of wrapping paper, and the warmth of a mittened hand slipped into another. It’s the sound of laughter echoing off the walls of a home that feels a little fuller and a little brighter simply because people are in it.

Yes, the days are shorter and the nights long, but there’s light everywhere. It glows in porch lanterns, in strings of holiday lights, and in the kindness that seems to flow more freely. December invites us to believe again: in hope, in generosity, and in each other.

When the snow finally falls and the world outside goes still, I always pause for a moment at the window, watching flakes spin through the lamplight. In that quiet, I’m reminded that joy doesn’t always shout. Sometimes, it drifts softly down, settles on your shoulders, and stays. ❖