There is one ornament that never leaves our tree.

It’s very small.

Very old.

Perfectly round.

Its surface is crazed with age, the silvering softened and clouded by time. It hangs from a piece of kitchen twine that’s been there as long as I can remember.

Not ribbon.

Not wire.

Twine. It always was.

That ornament has followed me through every Christmas of my life. It hung high on the tree when I was a child, placed there carefully by my mother and father, just out of reach. High enough to protect it from curious noses and wagging tails. High enough to keep it safe from little hands filled with wonder. Those fur babies are gone now, and the children have grown, but the instinct remains. It still goes near the top.

When I look at it now, I don’t see my reflection clearly. Time has fractured it.

Instead, I see light.

And memory.

And love layered so thick they blur together.

I see Christmas mornings when the world felt impossibly magical. I see my parents, steady and sure, quietly creating wonder. I feel the hush before dawn, the promise of something beautiful waiting just beyond sleep. That ornament holds all of it — not because it’s perfect, but because it’s endured.

This is what draws me to paint this time of year. Not the sparkle, but the memory beneath it. The way light carries feeling. The way time leaves its marks and somehow makes things more precious, not less.

In that tiny, weathered reflection, I see Christmas past — and the reason it still matters.

Some people keep journals. I paint mine—one brushstroke at a time.