Making Peace

It's that time of year again and I can already feel my mind restlessly shifting into low gear.

The Christmas decorations are up downtown and my neighbors have put up their Christmas tree and frosted their windows. Coming home after dark, the whole block is ablaze with colored lights and there are Santas in hardware and grocery stores. The Salvation Army elves are ringing their bells on every corner and I can't seem to go anywhere without hearing Christmas carols. For most people I know, tis the season. For me it's a day I can stay in bed.

I don't think much of Christmas.

When I was a kid, it was about presents and all that mattered was how much you could rake in.

Later it became about shopping and spending.

Still later, it was about outdoing each other with gift giving. Family came in a distant 4^th and Christ wasn't even in the running.

And in my family, there was always the nervous anticipation of my mother's drinking herself into dizziness and the game of pretend that inevitably followed. It was Christmas so we all played - overlooking the slurred speech and the unfocused eyes, the lurching into furniture and

the final slip into a sodden, sullen sleep – even my grandmother, tight lipped and disgusted, went along. The general consensus was that it was Christmas and not worth making a scene.

The past, so I've heard said, is a place for learning not living. These are memories, I remind myself, they have no power over me. And yet they reach across time and the temptation to listen is sometimes irresistible.

So I revel in the music and bypass the rest. We all make peace with the past in our own way.