I finally heard it!

The very first time I really understood the concept of Christmas, I was outside of a Church, and also not standing under a huge tree. That time was on a snow-covered road in Newport, December 1998, when I had the old lady's grocery bags.

Her name was Mrs. MacGilikoudi — that was how the neighbors referred to her, although the neighbors also referred to her with an English last name, the source of which none of them could identify; and she was trying to hold onto a ripped milk bag that was dripping milk all over the snow. The milk fell on the ground like a white waterfall, and while the milk was falling toward the ground, it created little white Christmas balls, like snowballs.

"May I assist you, ma'am?" I said. I had just finished school, and my feet were freezing, and all I wanted to do was go into the warm and shake off the chill.

She smiled at me softly, as if she had been waiting for me for decades.

On the door of her wooden home was a sprig of real mistletoe. Not plastic. Real, with white berries resembling tiny moons.

"Are you expecting anyone?" I asked.

"I'm expecting you," she said, and it wasn't a joke at all.

In her kitchen, her hot chocolate smelled like cinnamon and old wood. Her candles danced in a meditative motion. She served me hot chocolate with a marshmallow so large that I had to use a spoon to eat it.

"What do you desire most for yourself this year?" she asked, allowing me to gobble down a few sips of my drink voraciously.

"I desire there to be magic," I said. "True magic. The type that does not exist in soap operas or fast food."

She got a dusty shoe box from the top of the shelf. In the box was a small silver bell that was black from age.

"My grandmother would tell me that this bell only rings for people who are still believing."

I shook it. Silence.

"Turn it upside down," she said.

I turned it. Then I heard it: a clear, soft sound, as if the sound came from within me instead of from the bell. An unspoken note. A note that can only be felt.

"It's not the bell," she said quietly. "It's the decision to listen to something. To listen with your heart."

She handed it to me, love painted on her face and in her soul.

That evening, in my pink room, I placed it on the misty window that was covered with decorations. I shook it repeatedly, but it remained silent. It did not make a sound amidst all of the luxury and warmth surrounding me.

Years later, I grew up, moved out of my house, went to college, forgot — I returned to my childhood home for Christmas. My parents were on vacation, and I was alone with a glass of wine and complete silence.

I went to my old room. The bell was still there, covered in twenty years of dust.

I shook it, without any hope.

And I heard it. One single note. Clear. As nothing had changed since the day I put it on the window.

And I finally realized what Mrs. MacGilikoudi was saying:

Magic is never lost.

We simply have to mature enough

to be children once again. And to listen with the ears of our souls.