If Only In My Dreams

“Take my hand, Charlie,” he said, as I eagerly made my way to the window display of toys. Small trains on tracks, model airplanes hung in the air, beautiful porcelain dolls with cupid lips, all stared at me from behind the glass. “Charlie,” he said, “do you see anything you want?” I looked at him with big eyes. How did he expect for me to choose just one? He laughed and pulled me up into his arms. “You want it all, don’t you?” he asked, cupping my chin. I shrugged and blushed, knowing that I was being greedy. We continued to walk down the avenue, stopping at each window to see what goodies lay inside. We got ice cream at Nana’s Bakery even though it was cold. We stared at the multi-colored lights, and counted the Santa Claus displays, and had cake for dinner. It was our very own holiday tradition. I can remember thinking that this would go on forever. Me and him. Hand in hand. Time spreading out before us with no end. Frank Sinatra sang in the background that he’d be home for Christmas only in his dreams, and it never crossed my mind that I’d come to understand that phrase so very well.

I was fifteen years old when my father passed away and afterwards, I went to go live with my aunt and her children. It was an adolescence full of bad decisions. I raged and disobeyed and ran away too many times to count. “You were such a sweet kid,” my aunt would say, “What happened to that kid?” Well, that kid died, I would think. That kid died with him. Dramatic? Sure. But it was the truth.

I raged to forget. I couldn’t stand to think about him. How happy he made me. How happy I was. I didn’t want to live in a world that didn’t include him.

Eventually, after years of therapy, and with the patient help and love of my aunt and cousins, I began to come back to myself. Or maybe, I created a whole new self. Either way. Eventually, I was ok. I went to school. Became an English teacher. Got married. No children. I never wanted children. I was too afraid that I would die before they were ready, and I couldn’t stomach that. Some trauma never goes away.

My partner passed away this year and I have an urge to go back to my roots. To see the places I loved as a child. To be back in a world where my father still existed.

This was a horrible idea. I am walking the streets where he and I spent our days, and nothing is the same. Most of the stores are boarded up. Trash lines the sidewalks. Nana’s Bakery is now a Starbucks where grim faced teens stare at me from the other side of the window. The toy store is abandoned. It looks like it’s been empty for the last twenty years. Cardboard lines the windowsill. The streets are quiet. In a world that is constantly and quickly changing, why did I think that this place would be any different? Why did I think that maybe the world would stop here. That maybe life would have frozen in time just for me. We are selfish, I suppose. And maybe all of us think that if we pray hard enough, the world will stop spinning just for us. Even if it’s only for a little while. But of course, that isn’t the case. The world always moves on, and it’s moved on here, leaving this small, quaint town behind with nothing but overpriced lattes and short-tempered employees.

With nothing else to do, I keep walking. I walk past empty buildings and Apple stores and more Starbucks. Eventually, I stop in front of a Denny’s that used to be Cheryl’s Café. Cheryl’s was a town staple. It was the restaurant to come to when you wanted a hearty meal and fresh apple pie. My dad and I spent many evenings here, sampling Cheryl’s new recipes. I look into Denny’s windows, and I think I see my dad sitting at our booth. He’s drinking hot cocoa and looking out at me. He wants to talk about our dreams. Our future. What I want for next Christmas. What new jokes are being told at school. He wants to see the multi-colored lights adorning the windowsills of the shops and watch Nana’s fresh bread rise to perfection. He wants to sit by our fireplace and make smores, coating the living room with sweet smells. I stare back at him not knowing how to tell him that none of that exists anymore. That everything died with him. That we can never go back. And that Frank Sinatra was right. Christmas is only ever in our dreams.

My phone rings and I blink back to reality. My father has disappeared. A young couple sits in our booth eating plates of pancakes and staring at their phones. I shake my head as I pull out my own phone. Amelia, my niece, is calling.

She is sweet with a rebellious streak, and though aunts are not supposed to have favorites, she is mine.

“Hello, Amelia,” I say.

“Hi aunt Charlie!” she squeals into the phone.

I smile and wince at her shrill voice.

“Mom said you went away. Is that true?” she asks.

“Yea, I went away,” I say, looking at Denny’s, trying to re-imagine Cheryl’s. Trying to return to the safety of my memories.

“Well? Are you coming back,” she asks, “Are you coming home for Christmas?”

I stare at the phone. Am I coming home for Christmas. I look at the Denny’s. I think about the boarded shops and streets that are no longer mine. I could get lost here. I could create my own nostalgia. I could spend the holidays looking at our old house that is sheltering a new family. Or maybe it’s been knocked down. Maybe a parking lot stands in its place. But I could stare at it. I could stare at it, and imagine that everything is still the way it was. I could die in my past with only my dreams for company.

Or I could think about my partner. The world she and I created. The new home I made. The world Amelia occupies.

“Aunt Charlie?” Amelia asks, “Aunt Charlie, are you there?”

“I’m here,” I say, “And yes, I’ll be home for Christmas.”