Oh fucking Christmas! I stand outside the blur of commerce and all that’s bright and brittle. I also, though, stand outside all that’s good — throwing the baby jesus out with the bath and body water.
I do try. I try to bring light into my home. So the stupid halls are decked and the tree is up and the pine needles dig into my bare feet, but there is pain beneath the shiny and the green, and I prop myself up with an icepack on my knee and when night comes I watch tv with a bowl of anticipation perched on my lap, like a child come to whisper wishes, and mindlessly fill my ever-rounding belly.
I watch Elf, and It’s a Wonderful Life and Holiday Inn. And for some unfathomable reason, I even watch Hallmark Christmas movies. Seriously. I do. Every one is about a single woman/mother down on her luck, who magically finds love and her dreams and a glittering life complete with a fireplace. They are terrible, and I choose them as company over all that is true.
Give me something to think about; give me philosophy, the meaning of life, the universe!
Give me something to love; give me art, the tired, the poor!
Give me something to work for; a deadline, a garden, my children!
Oh, Christmas – give me something holy, and remove the vapid waste that is my lonely habit. Let it fall to the ground like a king to his knees and leave me without remote or reason to hide the tears that come, shining like lights, like stars, like love bearing gifts.
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