The Call of Christmas

It's not often that I break my own rules, especially for holidays when I most like to hibernate and wish the world away, but sometimes the call of friendship is strong and the demand is slight. It will be small gathering of good friends and music so I nod and smile and say yes, I'd love to. I dislike hurting anyone's feelings and besides, it's close enough to true to get by.

My dislike of holidays is a mixture of memories. The family I grew up with was disconnected and emotionally sterile. Nothing grew there except a reserved contempt and the only Christmas drama was wondering how long it would take my mother to drink herself into a hazy kind of oblivion. The family I married into was effusive, fairly spilling over with manufactured cheer and a smothering determination to prove how happy, healthy and intact they were. Funny, how distance and closeness coming from such different places can have the same effect. Funny, how long it takes to grow out of it.

When I get there, the house is a wonderland, decorated to the nines inside and out. Each room practically glows and everything smells of spices. Doorways are draped with greenery, every shelf and mantle is covered up with delicate crystal candles, the floor to ceiling tree takes up an entire corner. It's meticulously trimmed and glittery with tiny white lights and strands of silvery tinsel all faintly dusted with snow. This, I think, is a woman who takes Christmas seriously and I can't even begin to wrap my mind around how much time it all must have taken. There is eggnog and ginger beer and four different dips, a platter of vegetables and cheeses and a basket of still warm dinner rolls. It's laid out so prettily that no one wants to be the first to eat.

There's something hopeful in this house, something built on faith and real family, gratitude and love. The music and the decorations are just extra touches.