Today is Christmas Eve, 2016.

It was an average day in New York City; a cold rainy morning gave way to a brisk winter afternoon. After a not-so-busy lunch shift at the Brooklyn restaurant I work at serving tables, I arrive back to my studio apartment in Queens. It’s not messy, but not spotless. Some clothes are strewn about and a few empty beer cans are waiting their turn to be recycled. I tidy up my kitchen and light up my Christmas tree. Due to various reasons I shan’t dwell on now, it is a rather small and clearly fake tree, but nonetheless adds a nice touch of Christmas spirit to my apartment with a population of one. I pour myself a Christmas Eve drink, change into pajamas and begin a few evening chores. While taking my dirty clothes to the basement to do laundry, I overhear my neighbors across the hall. A family of five, plus a dog, all reside in what I genuinely hope is a space bigger than my studio apartment.

I’ve met Mom a handful of times. She is a stay-at-home mom who never goes anywhere without at least one of her three children tagging along, children who range from one to ten years old. Dad works nights and we often arrive back at the apartment complex around the same time after long shifts at our respective jobs. He sometimes takes the dog out for a late night bathroom break and we exchange a quick two AM “Hello” in the elevator or on the sidewalk.

Tonight, however, is different. It’s Christmas Eve; the magical night before Santa comes and family gathers for a festive and jolly celebration of life. As I walk back from the subway, I notice an abundance of families out walking. Admiring Christmas decorations, coming back from dinner, or just out enjoying the relatively warm December weather, I seem to be the only one walking alone. I’m not terribly upset about this, as I spent some time at home the few days prior, exchanging gifts with and enjoying the company of my family. I figured it would make up for not being home for Christmas, as I had to work the 24^th and 25^th.

While it’s generally quiet with the exception of some music, light conversation, and a few dog barks coming from various rooms on various floors, tonight is different. The entire apartment complex is practically silent, except for one recurring sound, from one specific place; laughter, constantly emanating from across the hall. If you have never noticed before, genuine laughter sounds a lot like genuine crying. It’s kind of like when you’re at the beach, listening to the waves hit the shore, and you close your eyes. If you didn’t know any better, you could actually be on a chairlift floating over a mountain hearing people’s skis glide over the snow. Or when you’re on a chairlift and close your eyes, listening to the people below weave in between each other, one could easily mistake it for the constant cyclical crash of waves against the sand.

However, tonight, the sounds coming from across the hall were, without a doubt, laughter. I was reminded of me and my siblings in years prior. While eagerly waiting to awake on December 25^th, the excitement of pre-sleep giddiness on the 24^th could never be contained. Even last year, at 22 years old, it was a magical time of love and joy like no other, a time I seem to appreciate more with every passing year.

Tonight, however, was different. For the first time in my life, at 23 years, eight months, and three days old, I was alone on Christmas Eve. That did not bother me until I heard the laughter across the way. While I was trying to ignore my night of lonesome existence, hearing the joy of the kids across the hall brought me a sense of melancholy like no other. I was excited for them, and happy to be reminded of years past with my own siblings, until I walked into my dimly lit apartment with a fake plastic Christmas tree.

The feeling immediately engulfed my entire being, like a person realizing their impermanence on Earth. I sat on the edge of my bed and thought of my family back home and how spending a few days with some of them in various times and locations would not quite be able to compare to the magic of all of us being together on Christmas Day. And then, right on cue, I again heard the laughter across the way.

This time, however, instead of feeling sad or alone, I felt happy. I felt happy that I had a loving family to eventually go back to. I felt happy for those kids across the way. I felt a greater appreciation for those with whom I have spent the last two decades of Christmases, and felt lucky to be where I was at that very moment. Had I not experienced the laughter of the children across the way, I may never have found the appreciation of this night that lay deep inside me. A Christmas Eve appreciation that I thought had been lost for years, locked in childhood memories and lost in the depths of consciousness, only to be unlocked by children, children whom I've barely met, laughing across the way.