Let There Be Peace

Red, green and white visible all over the house. Elf (doesn’t he have an evil eye?) on its last shelf. Bright lights: some blinking, some steady. A burned out light here and there (but the remaining lights keep on burning, so they say). Their light is superficial. The lights don’t truly illuminate anything.

Christmas tree filled with ornaments. Several handmade and from years past. The white Santa (indoctrination had already started?) the oldest son made from paper when he was a toddler. The black Santa with tight curly hair on his head and beard his daughter made twenty years later. The yellowed tape barely held each of them together. Store bought shiny (or matte) plastic reindeer. More Santas, only commercially made. Circular and square shapes reflecting light-bursts from the Christmas tree lights. Or from the overhead lights.

Frayed, listless, tired-looking angel listing to one side atop the tree. We purchased that angel together when we were young, unencumbered by children and in-laws and working to make a living and getting laid off and getting old and being unable to continue to run marathons. Popcorn strung around the tree, top to bottom. We’d popped endless pans of popcorn, suffered innumerable pricked fingers needles as we threaded the popcorn, filled up on popcorn (ate more than we were threading on the needle), told funny stories, then suddenly we were finished and everyone helped hang it on the tree.

Below the tree, wrapping paper torn from opened presents. Tiny shreds to big chunks of paper. The crinkled gold foil wrapping paper stands out the most. Sticky candy cane pieces stuck on the carpet. Chocolate candy wrappers, partially balled up, strewn on the floor.half opened peanut and walnut tins on the floor and tables. Boxes emptied of their contents: bicycles, building blocks, and dolls among other things.

Yes, I am the matriarch of a large family. My four son and their wives produced three children each. Children ranging in ages from two to fifteen. I wondered how they coordinated that so that each of their children had children their age to play with. That seems to be a massive undertaking to coordinate well-timed “love-making” activity (was it really love or carefully planned rituals to maximize the opportunities for pregnancy?) among the four. No matter now.

Outside

The view out the window is serene. No snow, there hadn’t been snow in years. Trees shorn of leaves stretched bare fingers to the sky. To each other. To birds, whose nests were visible. Unused until next spring. Pine cones carpeted the ground underneath the evergreens.

The street in front of the house was filled with cars as far as the eye could see. But no one was walking around-they’d apparently arrived and walked to their destinations. A car with antler ears. Another car with a beard and hat in front. Santa and reindeer had arrived. Many large family-sized cars with signs of “baby on board” or stick figures signifying father, mother and kids.

An uexpected pair of wild turkeys walked across the driveway and inspected the bushes before they continued their mostly flightless journey through the neighborhood. They were the largest birds I’d seen outside the zoo. Even my fierce hunter cat that was a nightmare for squirrels and mice kept his distance, watching them but not moving in too closely. He may have been sizing them up but apparently decided they had a size advantage. The birds strolled down the street, unaware they’d escaped being the cat’s next prey.

Alone in the house.

It was so refreshingly quiet. No high voices demanding this or that. Or expressing disappointment as they opened the last of their presents. Or screeching as they opened a gift they particularly liked. No teenage angst expressing disapproval through their eyes, slumped posture phone in hand while they texted someone not physically present. No teens feigning gratitude for what they’d been given. No sons staring blankly at the children, trying to build enthusiasm for gifts, but truly only interested in the game showing on the television.

Peace, blessed peace.

Sons no longer asking (demanding?) that I cook their special dishes. Daughter in laws no longer (figuratively) pushing me aside in the kitchen and cooking. Messing up my carefully designed order. Moving pans and dishes and utensils into unfamiliar places. Using up this and that so I no longer know what I have and what needs to be replaced. Requiring me to check each item after they’re gone and determine what I need to buy.

I brought them into this world, I can take them out. Words spoken in semi-jest, with the speaker not truly considering their import. A random expression, devoid of meaning.

But not for me. I was bone tired of watching them. I wanted time alone this holiday, for the first time.

In their identical holiday-patterned pajamas, they wore a curtain of silence. My husband stretched out near the door. Next to my husband lay my sons, in order from oldest to youngest. Their spouses lay next to the respective sons. Each child relaxed next to their parents. Laid out prettily on the Chrismas rug. My husband looked at me oddly when I saw it at a store and said I had to have it. He looked at me even more oddly when I put it in its location near the door.

Some blood, but not a lot. The poison did its job with little outward evidence of its use. I timed it so they were near their final resting place when they arrived at their final resting place. Some of their faces showed their agony when they realized they had been poisoned. I cleaned them up, wiping their faces (and sometimes their bottoms, although I won’t talk about that). Their skin took on a dull brown that I assumed represented finality. I lifted each one carefully as they succumbed and laid them softly on the carpet.

My youngest son’s children were last and as I moved them, the teen grabbed my arm for a moment. I rubbed her hair curly hair and wrapped her braids around my fingers and told her I loved her until she was gone.

It was hard moving each into the proper order, but I did it. Moving arms so they rested on their chests. Straightening legs. Rearranging their clothing. Smoothing faces as much as I could. Arranging the lips into smiles (grimaces?) Lastly, I opened their eyes so they could see their family members were next to them.

Kwanzaa starts tomorrow. Finally, I can be alone for the holiday.