things that the quiet between us could fill:
- a teacup
- a tablespoon
- the distance between here and there
things the first time you make me laugh after a fight could fill:
- a wine glass
- a cupcake tin
- the vase in the corner
- every ornament on the rockefeller center christmas tree
- the distance between me and you
“i thought i understood it, that i could grasp it, but i didn’t, not really. only the smudgeness of it; the pink-slippered, all-containered, semi-precious eagerness of it. i didn’t realize it would sometimes be more than whole, that the wholeness was a rather luxurious idea. because it’s the halves that halve you in half. i didn’t know, don’t know, about the in-between bits; the gory bits of you, and the gory bits of me.
”
what if our perfect little emotional containers were actually Things made of glass and brass and steel and gold? what if, as we ignored and repressed and insisted, they stacked up and multiplied making us all hoarders, forcing us to deal with our Things or be evicted?
would we be happier?
happiness would come in bottomless stainless steel, always cool and smooth. jealousy, a cast iron skillet, untouchable, always four hundred degrees. sadness would be enormous and chemical, bringing hot acidic tears to the eyes of the beholder.
regret would be the largest. a cauldron, a barricade, a priceless relic surrounded by barbed wire. mourning would be made of sand, slipping through your fingers and slowly, gently making its way to the sea.
if our things were Things, we’d wear them like badges. maybe we’d be more careful with each other. maybe we’d be more selective when choosing the people we love. there would be less mystery and more recognition. we’d look for respect (a thick soft rug) and humility (a deep pitcher made of sea glass).
we’d look for hope (crystal champagne flutes): we’d have closets full of them, shelves upon shelves upon shelves. when one hope is dashed we’d have a dozen more waiting to take their place. we’d clear the shelves and restock. we’d move forward.
i’m watching football because the seahawks are playing and it’s a big game and i’m usually home during this time of the year. it’s snowing there and i don’t know any of the players’ names but i’m still hooting and hollering and trying to be excited while i pack my bikinis for our trip to hawaii.
i feel all out of sorts when i’m not on the west coast for christmas. every year on this night, we have our annual christmas party. i sing “o holy night” and eat snacks and chat with the neighbors who have been showing up to drink hot buttered rums and give each other hugs for more than twenty years, thanks to my mother, the queen of christmas.
my mom was born on december 18th, exactly one week before her favorite holiday. her name is “carol” as a result of this (and her oldest brother’s insistence) and she recently told me that she doesn’t feel the name suits her. i was shocked— my mom has always been my christmas carol, the woman who instilled a deep and undying adoration of all things santa clause, snowbanks, mistletoe, and hallelujah at the very center of my heart. it’s my favorite because of all the things she did to make it special when we were little, all of the things that she still does when we all come together from our respective corners of the world every year.
this year, we’ll celebrate with sunshine and seashells. we’ll sit on the lanai and let our hair curl in the humidity and talk about home. we’ll be thousands of miles away from where i grew up but it will feel like christmas, will feel just like home, because as i sit here watching football in brooklyn, it occurs to me: it’s christmas when i’m with my mom. it’s christmas no matter where we are.