I have always been fond of Christmas. I love that it is a period of self-reflection and quality time with family and friends. Setting up the decorations around the house, rating the Lisbon Christmas lights, preparing traditional sweets and listening to my winter playlist all day, without judgment. Still, by far my favorite Christmas tradition is visiting my grandma’s house in northern Portugal.

 

As a child, I was always the first to be ready to start the drive. After picking out the warmest clothes in my closet, quickly stuffing them in my pink carry-on, and selecting an assortment of snacks from the pantry for the five-hour drive, I rushed into my parents’ room. My visible eagerness to leave Lisbon motivated the rest of the family to hurry up to get on the road. Why all this agitation? It wasn’t about the gifts — I would only receive the majority of them on ‘Dia de Reyes’ — but it wasn’t all about the family either. I longed to visit my grandma’s pet.

 

As soon as the gates opened, I would roll down the car window and pop my head to see my grandma waving with the right hand and firmly holding my white big fluffy sheep with the left. For the whole week, the sheep was mine and my brother’s priority — petting it, feeding it, walking it. All week, we tried to prove to my parents what caring and responsible owners we would be, if we had our own sheep at home, just like grandma did! Year after year, our efforts proved useless. In retrospect, I understand why my parents decided having our sheep at home wasn’t feasible.

 

Last summer, as I was sitting under the sun, I asked my grandma: “Why don’t you have sheep anymore?” She laughed dismissively, but soon realized I wasn’t joking: “I never had sheep, Maria. I bought one from a shepherd the week you and your brother were here and returned it after you left.” She burst out a chuckle and I soon joined her in uncontrollable laughter. Deep inside me, however, I could not shake the fact that one of my dearest childhood memories was a lie. When I confronted my brother about this, he confessed he always knew. I seriously doubt it. Every year, he was as excited to see “our sheep” as I was…

 

I should have pondered how a sheep was just living by itself in my grandma’s garden; hesitated once I realized it didn’t have a name; or at least questioned how her size and color oscillated slightly from year to year. But I never did — and I am happy I didn’t. Some things are just great and there is no need to dissect them. I am thankful to my grandma for artifacting such a special memory for us. Living in ignorance was a blessing.

 

Every Christmas, I pack my bags disregarding the inexistent sheep that might be waiting for me. At least for now; until my grandma decides it’s a good idea to bring the seasonal sheep back.

MARIA GONçALVES