“They are two people who seemingly have it all ~ admired and respected, feared and adored ~ yet I don’t think two lonelier people exist…”
We have reached the point in this holiday season, as we have reached for so many years past, when our protagonist pauses to listen to a melancholy Christmas waltz, indulging in one brief moment of existential crisis before going back to the grind and barreling through it. This year is slightly different, as I haven’t quite decided whether I’m going to slip out of crisis mode or let it all come to a head. If that scares you, please trust that it terrifies the fuck out of me, so we’re not quite alone.
Cue the music…
Maybe resurrecting the ‘shades of gray’ project from twenty years ago has stirred up those old ghosts – friendly ghosts – and all ghosts remind of days long gone. I suppose that’s sort of the point of a ghost. They haunt us until we face what we have ghosted. Sometimes they feel especially persistent around the holidays, and the Christmas tree, glowing and mysterious at night, has always been a portal to the past.
In so many ways, the magic of a Christmas tree has long disappeared from my life, which is sad and strange, because as a child I seemed to adore and appreciate every aspect of its existence more than most. I could lie on the carpeted floor beside it for hours at night, examining the ornaments and branches, studying how the lights were trapped by certain glass balls, and shattered into a thousand sparkles by others. Its scent was intoxicating too – like we had opened the windows to the outdoors at such an inhospitable time of the year and somehow remained warm and comfortable. Sometimes I’d slide beneath the lower boughs, looking up from the base of the trunk, breathing in that lovely pine and feeling part of this world in a way that thrilled and confirmed my existence. There were moments when I froze there, hidden by the tree and whatever early presents had made their way beside me, while my parents or brother would hurry by, not noticing either of us – the tree or me – and I was left in smug reassurance tinged with wonder and worry.
These days I leave the tree entirely to Andy, who still feels the magic I once felt, and does his best to share it with me. Most years I’ll finish with the last few ornaments to be hung, but this year I simply didn’t feel like it. Mom gave up on her tree as well, allowing Emi and her boyfriend to decorate it and set it up.
Maybe Christmas belongs to our childhoods.
Maybe I already gave it up years ago.
