This came to me about 2:00 a.m. Christmas morning:
Today began
crappy. I'm just saying.
Something told me, at
3:30, to go straight to the early Christmas Eve service rather than wait until
later and stew about the abysmal business crap that had been pushed to
CHRISTMAS MORNING FOR GODSSAKE... so I did, and it was good for soothing my
soul a bit. Candles, pretty music, all the things it should be. And
on the way home, an impromptu phone call to say hello to my boyfriend turned
into an invitation to join him and his dad's side of the family for a Christmas
Eve tradition of food and games.
Wow. Wine,
warmth, and everyone was cooking something. I was right away shown to an
apron and a fryer, and was soon frying breaded shrimp. Tempura.
Beer battered walleye. Seasoned catfish. Scampi. Spaghetti
and broccoli casserole and bread and olives and more wine (cranberry raisin
wine, I have GOT to find more of that). We ate. We played pool, and
took pictures, and talked, and for one moment, I stood leaning my head on
Jason's shoulder, and he smiled, mentioning that he knew what I was probably
thinking.
True, the thought
of sneaking away from the chaos with him for a second was tempting... but it
actually (for once in my normally naughty train of thoughts) wasn't what was
going through my mind. My mind had traveled back to ten years ago:
I was lying on my
mom's parents' couch in Shawano, Wisconsin, barely awake and fighting a fever
and raging sore throat. The movie "Anastasia" was on TV, and my
Grandpa Jim was sitting with me, eating mixed nuts and petting his dog.
Every now and then, he'd look over to see if I was awake. Grandma Leita
had come through the living room with the medicine her doctor had prescribed me
that morning from Walgreens. After watching me feebly swallow it, she looked
at me once with a practiced nurse's eye and pronounced me too sick to go to the
Christmas Eve service.
So, I lay there,
scared and exhausted. I'd come up the day before on a bus, barely having
lived in Illinois long enough to be considered a resident (not even that long:
it was less than a month), and missing my parents. Being here was the
closest family I had. I didn't know then, but Grandma would only live for
one more Christmas after that, and Grandpa one beyond her. Grandpa didn't
say much that night, except to ask if I needed another blanket.
The next morning,
Grandma, even weakened from chemo, had made homemade cinnamon rolls. And
Grandpa asked if I drank coffee. Hearing no, he simply got me some orange
juice, and as sick and lonely as I was, it felt normal. We opened
presents. We drank cocoa and played Skip-Bo and Golf (a card game which
to this day will always remind me of Jim Feay). We had dinner and I had some
more medicine. And slept a lot.
Today, I heard
music, laughter and games. I felt love despite chaos. And in a day
where I felt far from my normal family, there were people who hugged me, gave
me a place, and lifted my heart. Yes, I smiled back at him. Sure, I
was thinking of kissing him. But I was also thinking of how Christmas Eve
will always be the night that unlocks the deepest parts of my heart.
Where the child in me still lives, waiting for the magic of the season.
Waiting for Grandma to come home from the service and tell me I didn't miss
much, because the music was no more than okay, and the most important people
were right here.
It's cold here by
my computer. And as I reach for a blanket, I wish they were here with me
now. You know, in a way I could see them. I know damn well they're
here...
I miss you guys.
Merry Christmas.
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