The Christmas Star
It was always impossible to wake him up on Christmas morning, so why would today be any different?
I still don’t know if he died on Christmas Eve or Christmas Day. I recite the words from memory - ‘‘Twas the night before Christmas and all through the house…” and I wonder what his house sounded like; if not a creature was stirring or if you could hear his feet swishing their way over the hard woods. I used to know how to forget about him on Christmas. It took me 20 years but I did it. So, of course he would die on Christmas, maybe Christmas Eve. Why not both just to be sure? He always had a way of making things about himself.
He loved Christmas. And holidays in general. He was still very much a child. Maybe thats why he didn’t know how to father. I remind myself that parenting is hard. And I’m still thankful…grateful…for those handful of years where things were nearly perfect. It’s almost as if I squint just so, I can still see them in all their fuzzy, Christmas glory. My sisters and I under the tree, searching labels for our names. My mother and father, their love for one another long fizzled out, in bathrobes, readying the trash bag for wrapping paper, brewing coffee.
His hair had turned white, a stark white, seemingly overnight after he turned 60. The graying started much earlier, though. I remember seeing Just For Men hair gel in his bathroom cupboard when I was little and thinking how funny it was. My dad? Vanity? They didn’t go together. After 60, he looked just like Santa. He told me on our annual phone call that kids would whisper toys at him in passing.
December 25th, 2021 - Christmas Day
City sidewalks, busy sidewalks, dressed in holiday style. In the air, there’s a feeling of Christmas. The bells were still ringing in my ears from the night before, but I had taken an ibuprofen on the ride over and wore a long cream overcoat to hide my stale. My husband and I hosted Christmas Eve the past few years. In fact, we loved to do it. Cold crab claws, a punch bowl full of vodka cranberry, and my record player put to work. ‘Tis the season to be jolly.
But now it’s Christmas Day and I’m in Las Vegas at my sister-in-law’s house. I’m staring at a plate of melon and prosciutto. I had just set down my bag. Oh by gosh by golly, it’s time for mistletoe and Holly. My phone buzzes. It’s my sister. Holly. Sure, It was Christmas day, but my siblings and I aren’t ones to call. A passive group text would have done just fine. “Are you alone?” she says. I’m staring at at the distance between me and my nieces bedroom. I’m walking now, but I’m not there yet and she tells me anyways. Dad’s dead. He’s dead.
December 25th, 2021 - the Day Dad Died
Pretty lights on the tree. I’m watching them shine. I can’t put words together but my mouth is moving and sound is coming. She is on her way to see him. Oh, there’s no place like home for the holidays, no matter how far away you roam. I should be closer, not thousands of miles away. They are in Indiana and I desperately want to go with her. I want to see him because when was the last time I saw him? I’m panicking. I don’t want her to see him, alone.
Someone is rubbing my back, and I’m staring blankly into the wood grain of my niece’s desk. I need air. I hear my daughter and her sweet, lolling voice. “Why is mommy crying?” she says, repeatedly. Do you know what I know? Do you know what I know? I push my in-laws and their good intentions away and find myself out by the pool. It’s a balmy 55°, I throw up against the cinderblock fence. I have to get out of here. I’m a wild animal.
I am driving home and my body is going through the motions that it does when it drives. You ass hole. The streets are empty. How could you do this to us? My phone buzzes and buzzes. Bells will be ringing with sad sad news and I quickly, quietly fill with rage. A rage that will sink its claws into me and never let go.
We weren’t sure if he died on Christmas Eve or Christmas Day, because nobody checked on him. Not even at Christmas. There were no children that had a relationship with him anymore. Not really.
Holly told me his hand wasn’t ice cold when she touched it, so maybe it was Christmas Day. Or maybe it was a heated blanket doing its job. He had trouble breathing for over a week and dragged his feet when he walked. He refused to believe it could take him. It’s no worse than the flu, he had said. The first Noel, the angels did say, was to certain poor shepherds in fields where they lay. How long did you lay, dad? How long did you lay there? I had to tell your brother, your mother. On Christmas Day, no less. You let your heart be light, then lighter still. And then silent night.
This is why I can’t listen to Judy Garland telling me to have myself a Merry Little Christmas. I can’t listen to her voice tremble like it does. It sounds too much like Holly. It sounds like too much sad. The type of sad one knows is coming for everyone. There is melancholy in every refrain, every slide of melody, like it was put there just for me.
Sleep in heavenly peace, although I’m not sure I even believe. His last email was angry. He said he didn’t need to be reminded of his shortcomings. I knew we would never be able to fix things in a way where he made sense in my life. Instead, there would just be tales of the glory of Christmases long, long ago. He was so selfish, up until his last day, whenever that was. I gave him every chance and now I guess I don’t have to do that anymore. I can’t do that anymore. He’ll never get another chance to fix it. It could’ve been this next time or the one after that. It certainly wasn’t the many chances before. I guess I’ll never know.
Someday soon we all will be together, if the fates allow. Until then we’ll have to muddle through somehow. Maybe you’ll get it right the next time, Dad. If this is one of those things that repeats itself until you finally learn a lesson and get the damn thing right. I hope that one day I will feel differently…that I’ll be able to rip out this bird of rage that has infused it’s talon into the bone of my shoulder. I don’t want to be stuck in this one stage of grief forever.
For now, I do as I did when you were here. I try to forget. I busy myself, overwhelm myself with whelm on your birthday and Father’s Day, and all the other days where children need their fathers. So, I must be on my way, you see, lest the rage. For soon it will be Christmas Day.