The dinner guests, fingers to their lips, press the sponge, chocolate mud, and fruit cake into their mouths, as if they will run out of time or worse, cake. Icing paints their fingers until their searching tongues glide it off the skin and into their innards. Perhaps it’s because the cakes are that good, or maybe they believe it will maintain their happiness and anchor them in this moment forever.

But despite the momentary grotesque display of gluttony, I am happy here, floating upward and upward—literally. It’s the final Christmas party for Earth. The final night of happiness before it plunges into the shadows and is gone forever. So instead of celebrating on Earth where disease and darkness is already beginning to become rampant, we have vacated into this silver ball and plunged into space, traveling into the endless night until Boxing Day.

We spin slowly amongst the galaxy, leaving all troubles far behind us. The Christmas lights and the moon illuminate the guests’ faces in the dark—bright and happy. The elderly Mrs. Gerri Harvey is adorned in all the jewelry she owns: silver and glittering like the stars we pass. Her scarlet painted cheeks jump, giggling with Aadhira, the new King of Bollywood. His polished black mustache dances to the music of their laughter. The sound tumbles between them naked, genuine, and real.

I float upward still passing the ballerina dancing with Lieutenant Mathers. The ballerina—I do not know her name—is dressed in full Swan Lake attire, with gentle pink lipstick, mystery and a smile on her lips. Their swirling dance reminds me of the Christmas ornaments we had placed on the tree so often it became a tradition. They were the lovers, the parents, the guards of the tree and all its balboas. Mathers leans in and it’s like fireworks and hot cocoa on rainy Sunday mornings all at once.

I turn to see Jacob swirling in his ball gown next to Frieda Havinstahl who is dressed in her swimsuit. Their floppy arms, stretching backs and lazy smiles tell me they do not care whether or not they remember this night. Because it’s like we’re infinite and we’ll always be infinite and beautifully happy no matter what as we rocket into the unknown together, giddy with our own company.

When the bells chime the guests strap themselves once more into their seats for the second course. We eat the plates of fruits, spray whipped cream and gulp down sparkling juice, sliding down our throats, popping its bubbles on the way.

I look around me. From the most decadent Karkolov twins to Janice Gordo in her sweatpants, everyone is happy. It’s like the assorted lolly bags they used to sell in the stores; even though everything is different, they still are delicious. The prolific film star is in a gripping conversation with the neighbor who wears too much rep lipstick and leopard print. The scientist is laughing at jokes with the priest. The Right wing politician is dancing with the Leftist protestor.

The feeling in my chest is warm and light, rising up from my neck and onto my face, radiating to all those around me. Half of them are strangers to me, yet still this brightness comes out. It shines outward as if it is competing with the stars, moon and flashing lights.

Perhaps this was the Christmas we had all wanted but had forgotten somewhere amongst the wars, destruction, and anger. Perhaps this is what Christmas should have been all along. We’ve heard it a million times from the commercialized films that play every year, but it is only now that the message rings clear as sleigh bells in the snow. I wish only that perhaps people had learnt this message earlier. I wish countries, states, towns, and family homes could have stopped just for one minute to realize this. Couldn’t we have been happy for one day, or at least pretended to? It doesn’t matter to me whether or not this dinner is real or just a hallucination. Either way, it would still be true to me.
We keep swirling around in space, happy and content for once.

And there is no yelling. There is no shouting. There is no whining or arguments or threats of divorce or groans of exasperation or cars speeding off or reluctant tense truces. None of those at all.

There is only joy.

—By Emily W., 17, Darwin, Australia