I was just about done with Christmas.
It started so early this year, and it just never let up.
I was burnt out by the whole scene, especially considering the various mishaps that had already all but ruined the season. We still hadn’t even come with a week of the damn day, and all the events planned suddenly felt like insurmountable chores rather than exercises of enjoyment, and what’s the point of any of it then? I was spent. The real reason for the season had once again dissipated like the final wispy throes of a dying candle. The sparkling remnants of a broken Christmas ornament waited to be swept away beneath the tree, while holiday lights blinked blankly in the dark night. A dismal ache of emptiness; the sigh of a discontented season.
Into this madness I’d scheduled the Boston Children’s Holiday Hour, and eighteen people (nine of whom were under the age of fifteen) were about to descend upon my one bedroom condo on Braddock Park. It had coalesced into something that was verging on terrifying for me; the only thing that allayed my social anxiety (after a week of constant social interaction with office holiday parties, grab bags, dinners out, and family strife) was the thought that these were my safe people – the singular group of people I’d chosen as a family of sorts even and especially when the real thing could not be counted on. These were the people who had seen me at my absolute worst and not given up or turned away. We grew up together in the best possible way: out of choice. A choice to stay close and stay in touch no matter how much time or distance passed. A choice to remain in each other’s lives as we got older, got married, had children, lost loved ones, advanced through jobs, and went along our own mad paths of existence. Simply surviving in the world can be daunting, and some of these people have had it very difficult indeed. When we’re together, though, everything’s a little better. Maybe we are reminded of how simple things were when they were all back in school, living in that house on College Ave. I was only a visitor – the best friend of Suzie – but she was so beloved they each took me in and embraced me in all my non-glory. They became a family when I wasn’t sure if I could depend on my own. They did so unquestioningly, not taking any of my proclivities – sexual or otherwise – into consideration. To be so accepted was something new and startlingly wonderful. The best part is that when you go through something with someone when you’re both young, you can keep that as part of your very core make-up. It’s almost like being born into it. I like to think we caught that just in time, just before our souls solidified into the people we would forever be. They certainly informed the man I am today, and if there’s anything good or decent or compassionate about me, they each played a part in it.
With that in mind, quelling doubts and concerns about things being broken or burned, I entered my favorite city, where Chris and his son Simon were on their way to the condo from Harvard Square. There was just enough time to get everyone’s gift bags in order, turn on the Christmas lights, and prepare for a weekend with the kids.
Simon had been at last year’s Children’s Hour, and we’d had a blast then, but kids change a lot in a year, and I was sure he had little to no memory of all the mayhem that happened then. Childhood is forgiving that way. We caught up in no time, and whereas last year it took him a while to come out of his shell, this time he was ready to go within minutes of making a book together. While waiting for the glue to dry, we headed out to dinner at a family restaurant (according to Chris, most five-year-olds have a half-hour of table-sitting time before other distractions are needed, and apparently a bar is not an appropriate distraction, though I don’t know what we are teaching kids…) Though Simon favors a stroller, he did deign to hold my hand for the escalators and stairs.
Considering that half-hour warning, dinner went surprisingly smoothly, though we passed on dessert in favor of a visit to the Chipyard at Quincy Market. There the Faneuil Hall tree rose skyward in all its magnificence. Kira and I had missed it on our Holiday Stroll, so I was glad to mingle with the tourists for a bit and watch the light show with Simon. Seeing that through the eyes of a child was reason enough to believe in Christmas again.
Back at the condo, with preparations for the next day almost complete, there was nothing left to do but hunker down for the night. We set up the pull-out bed for Chris and Simon (hey, it was their turn as Kira and I had been relegated to it last year) and Simon helped me put the sheets on. I was told that he would be back up at 7:30 AM…
{To be continued…}
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