i used to dream of a white christmas; mornings cosy in matching pyjamas with fresh laid snow falling outside. now i long for what i used to have - mornings on the beach and nights out in the garden under the twinkling patio lights. it's so warm you don't even need a sweater, and the conversation flows as easily as the wine. we talk like we haven't missed a beat, friendships that have spanned continents and decades back in perfect harmony. we eat fresh seafood and stay up talking well past midnight, only forcing ourselves to head to bed when mum warns that santa certainly won't come if we're all still awake. it's sweet, i think, that she still tries despite how old we are. how jaded. but christmas magic, i realise, is very real and it exists in these small moments, somewhere between life's letdowns and general chaos. it exists right out in that very garden on a warm summer night in my parents' home nestled away in the suburbs of sydney; my own private oasis. my happiness. my peace. it greets me like a warm hug, a whispered promise that i can always return no matter how long i've been gone. welcome home, alycia.