Unraveled

Greg saw it begin to unravel. A loose green thread tickles his palm as it dangles from the chunky oversized sleeve. He’d worn this same ugly sweater every Christmas for ... what ... twelve years now? Thirteen? He counts back from his visit home senior year, just before Dad– just before his brother Pete got married. Yup. Thirteen years. He only wears the sweater for a few days each year, the rest of the time it’s stuffed in a box in Mom’s garage with the other holiday swag awaiting his annual return. But even a few days of drinking eggnog and lounging by the fire take a toll after a decade and change. Greg fiddles with the loose thread, thumbing the soft frayed edge. Time passes even when you aren’t looking. Especially when you aren’t looking. He pushes his sleeves up and digs into the box of ornaments. It’s just him and Mom again this year, and there isn’t as much room on the small plastic tree as on the big fir tree they used to get. He wants to pick his favorites. 

Greg saw it begin to unravel. Greg cuts the twine holding the Christmas tree to the roof of the car, and the branches snap open as the tree slowly regains its shape. Pete can’t make it this year. Again. Alice isn’t feeling up to traveling. They’re going to spend the holidays with her family since it’s only an hour away from their place near Cincinnati and her parents just love having the boys around for the holidays. Greg pulls the tree off the roof of his car with one gloved hand and throws it over his shoulder. It’s smaller and lighter than the ones they used to get; it’s barely taller than Mom. He opens the front door and leans it against the wall in the entryway. Mom comes out to meet him and gushes over her “real” tree. She says he smells like Christmas as he hugs her with one arm and lets her lead him into the kitchen. He feels the birdlike bones of her arm and shoulder beneath her garishly decorated green Christmas sweater. Five more ugly sweaters with the words “Pete” “Greg” “Alice” “Mike” and “Keith” spelled in glitter puffy paint are folded and waiting under the mantle in the living room, next to the empty waiting tree stand. She hasn’t had time to put them away yet.

Greg saw it begin to unravel. Greg stares at the ball of tangled twinkle lights on the floor in front of the Christmas tree. It’s massive this year, the skinny top branch actually touches the ceiling. He’ll need to get the step ladder and clippers to place the star. Mom yells something about the turkey from the kitchen, but National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation is blaring on her old TV/VHS combo and no one understands what she says. Pete looks at his watch again and sighs. Alice holds their youngest, Keith, on her lap. The baby pulls at the few sparse sequins and thin strands of old glue strewn across the chest of her green sweater. Mike, their oldest, sits in the corner playing with an impossibly complicated Lego set that’s too old for him. It’s his “big” gift from Grandma this year. Greg asks how things are at work as he untangles the lights. Pete grunts. Same old. Promotion in the works. Pete fidgets in his oversized sweater. The acrylic itches his neck. Be careful with those little pieces, Mike, he warns. Alice elbows Pete and he says he has to get up early tomorrow — the day after Christmas — for a conference call. No rest for the wicked. Any chance we can take that turkey to go, Mom? It’s a long drive home and they should get started. Of course, of course. I’ll just pack this up for you. The sound of plastic Tupperware tumbling out of a kitchen cabinet drowns out Chevy Chase’s rant about his Christmas bonus. Pete stands up and pulls the sweater over his head with a sigh of relief. And just like that, Christmas is over this year.

Greg saw it begin to unravel. The string holding the bundle of blankets together had come loose on the bumpy drive to the Goodwill and blankets covered the pile of boxes in the back of the SUV. Pete shoves the blankets out of the way and Greg sees boxes with the words “books”, “records”, and “winter clothes” scribbled on the side. Pete waits for Greg to get a grip on the other side of Dad’s old recliner. He counts to three and they lower it to the ground. The seat cushions are sunken and the headrest has a kinked indentation, a fossil record of the man who spent decades reclining as he read doorstopper science fiction novels or listened to old Count Basie records on his hi-fi. Pete counts again and they lift in unison to carry the oversized chair to the loading dock with the other abandoned furniture, boxes, and tchotchkes. Mom is back home packing up the rest of Dad’s things for storage. She’s so glad the boys can finally carry the heavy stuff to the donation center while they’re home. The Goodwill is always in need of donations during the holidays, and they’re all in need of the welcome distraction. On the drive home, Greg asks if they’re going to wear the sweaters this year. It’s tradition, isn’t it? Pete grunts and says they’ll probably have to pack up more boxes.

Greg saw it begin to unravel. Dad seems more tired than usual. He spends most of the day sitting in his recliner napping and pretending that he’s been reading the book on his chest whenever someone wakes him. He’s just been so excited about seeing you boys, Mom says over the opening credits of National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation. He just wouldn’t stop asking which day you got here and how long you’re both staying. Dad stirs in his chair and asks about Greg’s plans after graduation. It’s coming up soon you know. Greg talks about his internship at the marketing firm in town and it seems to settle the man. Then he turns to Pete and Alice on the couch and asks with a smirk about their big day. Alice blushes. We can’t wait for next summer, Dad, Pete says as he squeezes Alice’s hand. Mom bursts into the room with an announcement. Everyone get up and follow me into the dining room, she says. The dining table is covered with scattered sequins, glitter puff paint, felt, scissors, and three glue guns. They’re going to make “Ugly” Christmas sweaters this year, Mom says with a smile. She read about it online. Betty McKittrick said they’re doing it, too. Everyone gets to decorate their own “ugly sweater” Mom giggles, and then we can all wear them together each year. It’ll be a new family tradition. And that includes you too, Alice. You kids go first. Greg, Pete, and Alice take their seats and laugh as they collect piles of tinsel and sequins as they wait for the glue guns to heat up. Dad kisses Mom’s cheek and holds her shoulders as she leans back into him, watching her boys laugh and play together for the first time in years.

Greg saw it begin to unravel. He didn’t know it then, but that was it. That was the last moment when they felt whole; when they felt like a family. And he wondered why he was the only one who seemed to notice.