Christmas Eve

What mischief is this, this Christmas Eve business? Today is Thursday, and tomorrow will be Friday, and what oh what do you mean? I woke up in AmVets today, had taken in some books for donation and rambled about the unpopulated aisles searching for the magic cloak amid racks of women's wear. And there I was. Good Lord, why am I here? Friends had gone off to relatives, household readiness, or were wrestling enameled roasters out of hidden cupboards. Me and four other people poked and pawed like squirrels in the park, looking for acorns under fallen leaves. Ach, I had to get out of there, but did find a text on plant biology that had a chapter on fungi. I saw Becky, the young floor manager, as I paid for the book.

I made a few rounds to other shops, got through a festering line of backed-up carts driven by people who had lost their minds, and loped over to a grocery store to pick up figs and lunch. Again, two-legged humanity waved salamis and loaves in air, harrumphed about ice cream choices, and left footprints on the elderly who didn't move as fast. Murry Krissmuss we growled at each other, over shoulders laden with plastic bags full of tomorrow's sod. To home. I dropped by the post office and gave dear Beverly a gift card, she is a whirl of efficiency and patience, and wobbled under packages as I traipsed up the sidewalk to the apartment building door and ye gods what is that smell? Dark liquid seeped forward from the inner doorway, and I saw men with strained faces wheeling machinery and hoses through puddles of stench. Sewer backed up. I picked around the melee and ran into neighbor Adele as she scooped up her mail. We both shot upwards in the elevator hoping for escape, but by this time the entire building was rife with thick, swampish odors; I lit incense and flung windows open upon entering, leaving my clogs outside the door to disinfect later. Aough.

The tree is lit and soup is in the pot, simmering cabbage for zero points of calories. Christmas Eve was my favorite holiday, even better than Christmas in an imperfect world. Yet it has come to this, a Thursday and tomorrow is Friday except stores are closed. My son couldn't get off from his job, and this will be the first Christmas Eve I haven't seen him. He is thirty, and forgive me for my bad manners and self-pity, but after thirty years of son-centered holidays, it's hard to look at a calendar and then look in the mirror back at myself. Who hasn't gone through change? As my dear friend Barbara would say, put on your big girl pants and get on with it.

And so I will. Tomorrow I will make something. Dunno what, but there shall be art, something I've wanted to fiddle with. The men will have parked their machine away and gone to bed, maybe to wake up to coffee and eggs and Christmas morning. The people in the stores are home and winding down except for those who will be up till three-thirty wrapping presents for children. The bags of groceries will be divided into categories, chopped, stuffed, and baked. Some folks will enjoy their loved ones, others will have tantrums even though they are grown. Really, how is this different from any other day? Only in that we look for our loved ones, urged on by time, constricted by shortened daylight. Years do count and pile invisible weight on our bones that only reassurance and continuation can lift.

But you, you listen for sounds in the night and I don't mean the cat. Tonight is a glory, quietly rich in human warmth for us lucky ones and ever watched by the stars who have seen billions of our years pass in a tumble of eternity. Sleep well, sleep peaceful. Love you so.