Aug 2022
My childhood comes in fond waves of recollection.
The holiday seasons of Thanksgiving and Christmas were always my favorite times of the year. Times in which familial bonds felt their strongest. It was so easy and wonderful to be swept up in the whimsical magic of the holidays. Little problems or concerns are forgotten for the sake of repeating another year of well-constructed joy.
I would shiver with glee as we unpacked our three-foot-tall artificial spruce, set it on a stack of boxes covered with sheets, and decorated it with care. Proudly displayed in the window of our single wide trailer. Every night before bed I'd stare at it admiringly.
It ******* glistened.
My mother and I would piece together a jigsaw puzzle on a card table set up in our living room while watching Christmas movies on TV. It was humble, but I wouldn't trade it for anything.
I recall being upset one year when my father (correctly) guessed that I bought him a Buck Knife for his Christmas gift. He then made a comment suggesting that he didn't need another knife. It crushed me because I thought it was the perfect gift for a man I tried so hard to relate to.
Most of my childhood memories are filled with joy.
Pretending my G.I. Joes inhabited the branches of our softly lit tree. The elf and angel ornaments were either friend or foe and offered either shelter or a diabolical plot of destruction. The angel atop the tree (from my mother's first marriage in the '70s) was the queen that all the other ornaments and soldiers bowed down before.
She was a goddess.
These days I can't help but be brutally honest with myself and acknowledge that the connection to my biological family is barely existent.
There are no jigsaw puzzles.
No Buck Knives.
No glistening lights.
No tree.
Just me alone in an apartment with a glass of whiskey.
There was a time when I carried on the gleeful tradition of the holidays. With my own three children by my side, I carefully placed that angel from the '70s atop the tree.
I think they were as enamored by her as I once was. I could see the innocent thrill in their eyes.
I haven't looked into their eyes for over a year.
The naive childhood excitement of the holiday season is a distant memory. Now, these days on the calendar remind me of things I will never experience again. They gently, but painfully enter like a dagger between my ribs.
The wound is reopened every ******* year.
I look around and see happy little families shopping for holiday meals and gifts as I push my humble cart around the grocery store alone. I imagine them with a crackling fireplace in their living room like I once had; decorating the tree and listening to holiday tunes. Dancing and giggling.
I can't help but wonder if my children are placing that angel atop the tree with their new dad.
The angel their grandmother passed along.
Her broken marriage.
My broken marriage.
And still, that cardboard angel sits atop the tree spreading joy.
She's a goddess.
The holiday seasons of Thanksgiving and Christmas were always my favorite times of the year. Times in which familial bonds felt their strongest. It was so easy and wonderful to be swept up in the whimsical magic of the holidays. Little problems or concerns are forgotten for the sake of repeating another year of well-constructed joy.
I would shiver with glee as we unpacked our three-foot-tall artificial spruce, set it on a stack of boxes covered with sheets, and decorated it with care. Proudly displayed in the window of our single wide trailer. Every night before bed I'd stare at it admiringly.
It ******* glistened.
My mother and I would piece together a jigsaw puzzle on a card table set up in our living room while watching Christmas movies on TV. It was humble, but I wouldn't trade it for anything.
I recall being upset one year when my father (correctly) guessed that I bought him a Buck Knife for his Christmas gift. He then made a comment suggesting that he didn't need another knife. It crushed me because I thought it was the perfect gift for a man I tried so hard to relate to.
Most of my childhood memories are filled with joy.
Pretending my G.I. Joes inhabited the branches of our softly lit tree. The elf and angel ornaments were either friend or foe and offered either shelter or a diabolical plot of destruction. The angel atop the tree (from my mother's first marriage in the '70s) was the queen that all the other ornaments and soldiers bowed down before.
She was a goddess.
These days I can't help but be brutally honest with myself and acknowledge that the connection to my biological family is barely existent.
There are no jigsaw puzzles.
No Buck Knives.
No glistening lights.
No tree.
Just me alone in an apartment with a glass of whiskey.
There was a time when I carried on the gleeful tradition of the holidays. With my own three children by my side, I carefully placed that angel from the '70s atop the tree.
I think they were as enamored by her as I once was. I could see the innocent thrill in their eyes.
I haven't looked into their eyes for over a year.
The naive childhood excitement of the holiday season is a distant memory. Now, these days on the calendar remind me of things I will never experience again. They gently, but painfully enter like a dagger between my ribs.
The wound is reopened every ******* year.
I look around and see happy little families shopping for holiday meals and gifts as I push my humble cart around the grocery store alone. I imagine them with a crackling fireplace in their living room like I once had; decorating the tree and listening to holiday tunes. Dancing and giggling.
I can't help but wonder if my children are placing that angel atop the tree with their new dad.
The angel their grandmother passed along.
Her broken marriage.
My broken marriage.
And still, that cardboard angel sits atop the tree spreading joy.
She's a goddess.
Written 11/29/2015
