Love
I lay on my belly, my cheek pressed to the plush carpet. A house, a roof, a bed....but not a home. I listen to the sounds of the orchestra and choir singing carols that have seen centuries Christmases before me, and likely will see many hundred more after I have left this earth.
Memories wash over me, unbidden, unwanted. Laying on the cheap gold carpet, gorged on
candy, listening to my brothers deep, peaceful voices and watching my mother sit and take it in...the one day a year none of us quarrel, and she would not be working her fingers to the bone. The smell of the artificial tree, and the beautiful ancient ornaments on it...most of them older than me. The strange feeling of peace that they will always be here....the flow of consitstancy warm like a blanket over me.
Curled up quietly on the worn old love seat, watching the heavy white snow slakes drift down from heaven, the lights of the tree reflecting softly on the big glass back door, absorbing the beauty of the silk ebony night, the comfort of my mother sleeping in the next room. Wondering where my father is this night....if he is happy, if he is tucking his young son in, promising him Santa won't come till he's asleep. Wondering what it would have been like to have him there for me.
Perched on the delicate antique sittee before my vanity mirror, adjusting my dark eyeliner and the heavy red lipstick, painstakingly piling curls in place, preparing for a performance, my short pleated plaid skirt freshly pressed by an insistant friend. My heart soaring like a bird caught in an updraft, excitment shining from every pore of my face, making my pale skin glow and my eyes shimmer.
A dark room, lighted only by candles, the thousands of tiny white lights I had strung all about the apartment. His hand resting uncomfortably on my swollen abdomen, his attention forced, uneasy, restless. A tear rolls down my cheek...some part of me knowing that he will not be here long, and that I should treasure these moments with him before he is gone. My soul aching for my unborn son...
This year, I am again with my mother. The small apartment in her basement will have no lights, no tree out of neccessity. There will be gifts, candy and eggnog for my children, of course. The carols will play familiarly this year, and we will peacefully watch the same hopeful stories of beautiful christmases, romantic and calming, as they have been every year.
But the thruth is, this year, I am alone. No presents sit under a tree, the giver anxiously watching me, breath baited and heart pounding, wondering, hoping, praying I will see the same things he did when he chose it for me.
No one's hand will cling fondly to mine at dazzling celebrations in forest green, scarlet, and gold, steering me from one group of friends to another, beaming with pride. No ones eyes will occasionaly scan my face, searching with concern to see if I have grown weary, looking for the soft smile of reassurance that I have not grown bored. No ones lips will convey a sweet, pointed message as we cling briefly together under the mistletoe, mindless to the sensation of amusement we cause in the crowd, the implications that will be made....aware only of the heat radiating from one to the other and back.
No one will wake up beside me on christmas morning, rubbing his eyes grumpily, and still begrudingly grinning down at me in his arms, as we listen to the delighted squeals of joy in the next room....my children discovering that again this year, Santa Claus did not forget them, leaving bulging stockings, presents glaore, and a fresh covering of candy canes on the tree.
My eyes begin to flutter drowsily as the music ends and the room falls to silence. I know that you too will spend your christmas alone. Little Eve tolds me, quietly inferring she would invite you to spend the holidays with her. And I know with all my heart that there is no one on this earth I would rather spend my christmas with this year, than you.
Memories wash over me, unbidden, unwanted. Laying on the cheap gold carpet, gorged on
candy, listening to my brothers deep, peaceful voices and watching my mother sit and take it in...the one day a year none of us quarrel, and she would not be working her fingers to the bone. The smell of the artificial tree, and the beautiful ancient ornaments on it...most of them older than me. The strange feeling of peace that they will always be here....the flow of consitstancy warm like a blanket over me.
Curled up quietly on the worn old love seat, watching the heavy white snow slakes drift down from heaven, the lights of the tree reflecting softly on the big glass back door, absorbing the beauty of the silk ebony night, the comfort of my mother sleeping in the next room. Wondering where my father is this night....if he is happy, if he is tucking his young son in, promising him Santa won't come till he's asleep. Wondering what it would have been like to have him there for me.
Perched on the delicate antique sittee before my vanity mirror, adjusting my dark eyeliner and the heavy red lipstick, painstakingly piling curls in place, preparing for a performance, my short pleated plaid skirt freshly pressed by an insistant friend. My heart soaring like a bird caught in an updraft, excitment shining from every pore of my face, making my pale skin glow and my eyes shimmer.
A dark room, lighted only by candles, the thousands of tiny white lights I had strung all about the apartment. His hand resting uncomfortably on my swollen abdomen, his attention forced, uneasy, restless. A tear rolls down my cheek...some part of me knowing that he will not be here long, and that I should treasure these moments with him before he is gone. My soul aching for my unborn son...
This year, I am again with my mother. The small apartment in her basement will have no lights, no tree out of neccessity. There will be gifts, candy and eggnog for my children, of course. The carols will play familiarly this year, and we will peacefully watch the same hopeful stories of beautiful christmases, romantic and calming, as they have been every year.
But the thruth is, this year, I am alone. No presents sit under a tree, the giver anxiously watching me, breath baited and heart pounding, wondering, hoping, praying I will see the same things he did when he chose it for me.
No one's hand will cling fondly to mine at dazzling celebrations in forest green, scarlet, and gold, steering me from one group of friends to another, beaming with pride. No ones eyes will occasionaly scan my face, searching with concern to see if I have grown weary, looking for the soft smile of reassurance that I have not grown bored. No ones lips will convey a sweet, pointed message as we cling briefly together under the mistletoe, mindless to the sensation of amusement we cause in the crowd, the implications that will be made....aware only of the heat radiating from one to the other and back.
No one will wake up beside me on christmas morning, rubbing his eyes grumpily, and still begrudingly grinning down at me in his arms, as we listen to the delighted squeals of joy in the next room....my children discovering that again this year, Santa Claus did not forget them, leaving bulging stockings, presents glaore, and a fresh covering of candy canes on the tree.
My eyes begin to flutter drowsily as the music ends and the room falls to silence. I know that you too will spend your christmas alone. Little Eve tolds me, quietly inferring she would invite you to spend the holidays with her. And I know with all my heart that there is no one on this earth I would rather spend my christmas with this year, than you.