Imagine a tranquil night in the last day of December. It is still winter just a few years ago. Consider the living room in one of the many houses in Beijing. The main feature of the room is the TV screen surrounded by the flowery sofas and a sharp edged wood table; there is also the ceiling to floor windows that shows vivid motions of the streets and its civilians walking by. The lights of the room are dancing with joy by its sense of voice and excitement rising in the air. A female with neat black-red hair is sitting comfortably on the sofa. She is wearing a warm red turtleneck sweater with comfy grey leggings and her feet heated with a pair of purple socks covered randomly with yellow polka dots. She is ordinary and swift like a light hearted puppy; but due to stress and reduction terms of sleep, her loss of weight is obvious in the shadow of her slim shape. Her face shines the childish laughs as Ellen DeGeneres but different by the look of her skinny cheekbones and the spark of a Chocolate –Hershey bar pair of eyes. Turning on the TV and curling herself into a ball on the couch, she exclaims in delight, “Bring out the snacks and food for the New Year Show!” She is rushing me and the rest of the family to prepare since the show is starting. She is in her mid-forties as I am in my teenage years. The woman is my mother. My dad is here along with my sister and occasionally disputes erupt, but as a family, we try to ignore the pretty ugly flames that prickle our heart at times; we are all here, as always, to celebrate the New Year together. My mom and I are always there for each other. She calls me by the name, Jessica, as we are old friends. Even though time has aged my mom, she still remains in her teenage world. It’s always the same: The start of dusk and the lights livelier than ever before, announces the arrival of New Year. My mom sits impatiently, one hand holding the remote, the other waving us to come, like the force of the wind shoving us forward, in the coziness of the room. As I look around, the traditional annual New Year show is playing, the scent of hot pot still lingers in the air but a whole new pile of snacks and drinks are piled chaotically on the table. The Chinese decorations are full with symbols of Chinese zodiac, posters of a girl and a boy holding a scroll that says, “ Happy New Year!” , and symbols of lucky reds flooding everywhere in our home, messy but beautiful. When the Danish cookies , chips, plum candies, fruit cups, beef jerkies, are halfway gone, time is also narrowing to New Year and the host starts counting down to midnight. We all chant with the host until the number zero is said and we all rush to the windows as the fireworks crackle, pop and fizz while the multi- colored fireworks splash through the sky and gleams under the dark. We watch the rare sight for a long period of time as the enthusiasm gradually grows. When the last of those sparks sizzle off, a cloud of pollution wraps around the sky. This year was different. It will always be blood running through my veins; a memory. It was the first time that I felt genuinely warm under the arms of my family. Every bit of snow within our house was melted as if it felt the love spreading everywhere. New Year is when dusty mistakes are forgiven, as new goals emerge. It is a turning point, a tree growing its leaves again. It’s another year of new experiences and hopes.