To Please a Woman
Minh says I’m hard to buy gifts for. Yet every day I anticipate him coming home with little offerings: cookies wrapped in napkins sneaked out of faculty workshops, a bottle of sanitizer, a ChapStick from a job fair. When Minh gives larger gifts, he often confuses the holidays. Among Christmas presents? A “Most Wonderful Mom” button. For my birthday? Books and a pumpkin-shaped eraser. Next year is our 25th anniversary. I will pretend to sneer as I unwrap each gift. Then laugh. It’s not easy to please a woman already content, a woman who has the best life can give. — Nhi Huynh (Originally published on Dec. 14, 2021)
A Handwritten Reminder
My friend’s annual Christmas card was addressed to “The Perkins Family,” but “The” and “Family” had been crossed out, leaving just my first name, Mary, scrawled above my last. It was a correction that denoted a truth: Unlike most of my friends, I am single. I felt amused and a little sad. The card emphasized what I lacked. But along with my sadness came surprising reassurance: This envelope was a small reminder that I took the road less traveled, that I chose to draw my own life path, that I was OK with living outside the lines. — Mary Perkins (Originally published on Jan. 4, 2022)
Embracing Change
On my first post-divorce Christmas, our traditions felt essential. My children and I chose a perfect tree, hauling it home atop our minivan. Covered in sweat and sap, I muscled the tree into the stand until it was mostly straight and stable. The next year I opted for friends’ assistance, returning their kindness with beer. A year later my son was old enough to tighten the screws. And this year? My boyfriend, a Jewish man who adores Christmas, was happy to help. Though the tree tradition remains, a lot in our life has changed. I am so glad that it has. — Ashley Davis (Originally published on Dec. 26, 2023)
Our Rescue Game
The year our father left, I’d thrash around on my big sister’s shaggy blue carpet at bedtime, pretending I’d fallen overboard. Melanie would hoist me into the lower bunk, singing as I dozed off. Our rescue game turned real one winter’s day at the bus stop. I bent to pack a snowball. When I stood — smack! — I was hit in the face by Melanie’s own icy projectile. Stunned, I began running, then fainted. Melanie started mouth-to-mouth resuscitation and then carried me home. Our father never returned. But my sister is still here, healing life’s harshest wounds, breathing joy into my everyday. — Jodie Sadowsky (Originally published on Dec. 21, 2021)
How to Repair
My wife orders takeout with her iPhone, but it rejects her card. She snaps at me as I try to help. I collapse into silence, a protective shield. When we’re wounded, our tendency is to get small. Snippy. Mean spirited. In these moments I wonder how the world’s conflicts will ever be resolved when we two who have committed to loving one another would rather find fault than mend relatively minor transgressions. She asks for a hug, so I hold her. I make two cups of tea. Drape a blanket over shoulders. Small gestures, perhaps. But my heart feels giant. — Nicole R. Zimmerman (Originally published on Jan. 2, 2024)
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