The Hour of Christmas

It was her favorite time of year. Snow fell steady beyond her window, puffy, heavy flakes that glittered in the Christmas lights. The sidewalks would be dusted with a healthy covering by this hour, though the carolers singing merely a few doors down didn’t seem to mind. The world outside her home was barely above a whisper of movement; there was no honking of horns or traffic of any kind, no angry people shouting in the streets, and hardly any clanging or banging from her neighbors. It was peaceful.

Or at least it had been for a moment.

Her mothers smiling face, the very same that sculpted her own, appeared before her in a flurry of red and green. It was typically in her mothers fashion to adorn her worst Christmas sweater and fuzzy Santa hat, either found or gifted to her each year. Father had often asked if her mother had taken inspiration from the Grinch to which she then asked if he had taken his from Scrooge, but they’d both laugh and, at the dismay of their children, share a kiss under the traditional mistletoe. She couldn’t begin to guess what the sweater had on it before mother was whisked away to the kitchen to check on the Christmas turkey. She could hear her grandpas voice somewhere asking to help before a scolding followed soon after, telling him to go put his feet up and enjoy the games and snacks.

The games were perhaps her new favorite part of the holidays. She was old enough now to join the grown ups at the big table, drinking wine with her aunts while sharing the latest news about family and friends alike. There were moments she missed the magic of Christmas: finding the toy elf hidden away or playing mischievous tricks, baking and decorating cookies for Santa with copious amounts of icing, trying to stay awake to hear the jingle of sleigh bells or the jolly fat man come down the chimney. Yes, the childhood wonder had worn off some time ago, but being the eldest meant she was now allowed in on all the fun. Her and her mother had schemed new places for the elf, she’d made her very own batch of her mothers syrup cookies to decorate, and she’d told her littlest of sisters to be mindful and set carrots out for Santa’s reindeer.

But it was the cookie decorating she was most excited to partake in this year.

“Hey sweety! How are you doing?” Her father greeted her, his smile crinkling the edges of his already wrinkled eyes. His voice was like a warm cup of cider, wrapping around her and soothing every jagged edge she didn’t realize she was feeling.

She wondered if the same marks of a happy history would be found in her eyes when she reached his age. “I’m good dad. Nothing out of the ordinary,” She said as her father took her through the house. It looked like Christmas threw up in her childhood home, and she thought to ask if the old lady had robbed a decorations store or maybe even suggest she open her own Christmas decor shop. Everywhere a person looked they could see garland strung with rainbow lights, holly berries hanging between stockings above the lit fireplace where everyone gathered, snowflakes and tinsel and sentimental homemade decorations looked to float around the Christmas tree, and she even heard the toy trains whistle blow though she couldn’t see where the track was this year. She took in as much as she could around her father before being ushered into the kitchen where her mom hovered over an already crisp golden brown turkey. Her mouth watered just looking at the delicacy.

Before she could say much else, she was put at the table with the rest of her siblings, already sticky fingered and stained lip from icing. She gaped at the mess in front of her. “You started without me!” She cried, hurrying to pick up her own cookie and begin.

Her little sister barely looked up to acknowledge her. “You took to long,” She pouted, dotting an angel shaped cookie with every color of icing available to her. A rainbow waterfall of sugar dripped down the sides, but the little girl didn’t seem to care.

“And you took to much icing,” She chided, dipping her brush in an acceptable amount of icing before brushing it against a gingerbread man shaped cookie. The no doubt snide remark from the little girl was lost under her mothers voice, carried across a counter filled with the other components of Christmas Supper.

She could almost hear the fond eye roll from her mother. “I’m sorry, dear. I asked them to wait for you but your uncle brought his Wii and well, you know how they get with that thing around and with food almost ready we’re going to need the table space.”

She promptly shut down the bluesy feeling creeping up her spine at the haste of her favorite tradition. She could at least be glad they took the time out of their chaotic evenings to participate in this with her. “I’m surprised you managed to keep them here this long,” She joked, trying to muster the same cheer in her voice that she lacked in her heavy growing heart. The brothers, at least, were doing their best to make the cookies true to their shape. The trees were decorated with dots for ornaments with strings of other colors made to look like garland, angels had yellowish wings and white robes with wobbly halos, the gingerbread men had buttons running down their middle and smiling faces. It was clear which ones they had done first by their precision and care, and it was clear which ones were being done now in their haste to play video games.

She worked hard in the hour she decorated cookies to appreciate their indulgence, even if it was less willingly given than she’d hoped. She oohed and awed at what the little ones were saying and feigned ignorance to their grueling questions on Saint Nick. They told her they were extra good this year thus they were extra sure Santa would give them exactly what was asked for. At this her mother looked at her over their little heads with an exasperated look, acting as though she didn’t buy them precisely everything. She’d helped her mother buy the presents herself, but hadn’t been there to wrap them. At different points her aunts would wonder into the kitchen for a wine refill before stopping at the table to ask her how life was going in the real world. Answers were short on this aspect, but not discouraging from the life they had hoped for her. Questions about her love life were quickly laughed away and punctuated with a big gulp from her own wine.

She hadn’t known what to expect this Christmas but this, regardless of how present she was for the lead up to it, alighted her soul in a way she’d missed the last few months; she soaked in the warmth of her mothers kitchen, from the food still piling into whatever space was left open to the decor covering the rest of it, savored the familiarity of conversations with the people she’s known her entire life, and basked in the joyous atmosphere only family could create during the holidays. She wanted to hold on to the feeling as long as she could, bottle it and put it on her shelf for the days she felt low. She could ask for a picture, but she knew she would only be able to focus on what was missing from it.

But nothing can last forever.

Her mothers voice cut through the conversation and clatter of the house, “Alright everyone, supper is ready!”

She watched as everyone filed in, finding their respective seats and beaming at the spread of food before them. She thought about what she would eat or if she’d fall victim to a hefty nap after gorging herself. No one would stop her if she did. More wine was poured and laughter shared with praise for her mothers hard work chorused all around. They weren’t a religious family and yet everyone still paused and looked to the head of the table where she was positioned beside her mother.

"Okay dear, I guess we wont keep you much longer. I’m sure you have plans of your own tonight, Christmas in the big city and all,” Her mother said with a smile betraying the void of happiness she felt.

There was a nagging sensation of guilt overshadowing the joy she felt not even five minutes ago, but still she swallowed the lump formed in her throat. “Right, yes. Enjoy the meal everyone, I hope you all have a good Christmas!”

She didn’t want to listen to the sentiment returned. Her good Christmas had just happened, over facetime with a family hours away from her. For the first time since being on the call, she thought about what this Christmas really looked like for her.

Lonely.

But she wouldn’t say that, lest she ruin the current happy vibe for everyone else. She bid them all farewell with promises to call everyone the next day with a kiss blown from the tips of her fingers. Would they feel it, all the way over there?

“Love you all!” She said for what must have been the hundredth time in the dance of saying goodbye before her mother finally disconnected the call.

And for the first time in the hour she sat on her ragged sofa, she looked up with a heart as barren and quiet as her apartment. The sun had set, leaving only the glow of Christmas lights on her terrace to chase away the cold dark. Stiffly, she reached for her companion for the night- a half empty wine bottle- and listened to the last of the carolers go by.