The general consensus is that it can’t be Christmas without snow, but when I was younger, it wasn’t Christmas without three things: Christmas Eve bingo with my mom’s side taking shots if they lost; my aunt’s salad with mandarin oranges, candied almonds, and the dressing she’ll never give me the recipe for
; and the aunts and uncles themselves with their flocks of giggly children. And then : the Christmas-morning stockings with my family.
One needn’t look much further than one’s Facebook timeline to see the corruption. We broadcast the materialistic bits of Christmas: the jewelry, the gaming systems, the name brand. We use emojis to blow indirect kisses at what? the people who got them for us or the objects themselves?
This Christmas Eve, I cradled a red Solo cup of watered-down tea and read Memoirs of the Author of A Vindication of the Rights of Woman while my uncle, grandma, and mom gathered around a laptop to look at pictures. There was no crowd of aunts and uncles, no shots or bingo. I fell asleep on the couch around 8 or 9, and my grandma and uncle left soon after (though not before the annual wrapping-paper war).
Christmas Day, I showed up early at my dad’s mom’s to make pizzas
It’s like no one’s really excited anymore, as if the fact that there’s no snow takes away our abilities to at least pretend that we like one another or care about one another’s excitement. Maybe it’s just me
The only tradition that held this year was the great stocking dive: my mo
Our mouths had opened for the coffee and stayed open for the conversation, laughter, and food.
The day after Christmas, I woke up at 5am and settled into my chair with my journal, my laptop, and the bag of pistachios. By the time 7:30 hit, I had a few more pages added to the screenplay I’m working on and a pile of shells from pistachios consumed. My mom got out of bed and turned on the coffee machine. We both glanced out the window. There was still no snow on the ground, so who knows when Christmas will come. I know where to find happiness.