Greeting the Seasonal Guests
Twenty-nine years ago, my mother upstaged Jesus by dying right before Christmas. I was a single mother of a 4-year-old. I made the season merry for my daughter, though inside I felt like the sun would never shine. Over the years, I accepted that sadness would arrive around December. I greeted it at the door with a cocktail in hand — recently, with a pot of coffee. Sad and happy memories will always sit together at my holiday table, like restless houseguests. In the new year, happiness extends its stay while sadness slips quietly out the door. — Gloria Barone Rosanio
Back in the Rhythm of Conversation
My 14-year-old, Vedant, dwells in a dungeon (i.e. basement) under my bedroom. Through the muffled cadence of his voice, I deduce if he’s in virtual school or playing an online game. Thrice a day, he comes up for air, asking, “What’s there to eat?” We used to talk a lot on our car rides, about life and feelings. Now we have nowhere to go. For the holidays, I make him my sous chef. Slicing a butternut squash, my knife slips. He takes my bleeding finger in his hand and blows a kiss. Food an excuse, we talk about feelings again. — Yogyata Singh Davé
Trusting the Edge
A family holiday card that year would have shown our faces being scratched out: father dead, mother in assisted living, one brother in a coma. I’d just broken up with a dishonest, possibly-cheating-on-me-boyfriend. My brother Gary took me ice-skating at the local rink. He was graceful and fluid; I tottered on wobbly ankles. He skated over with ibuprofen, a Walkman and headphones. Coltrane was playing “My Favorite Things.” “Trust the edge,” Gary said. Soon I was gliding along, no longer depressed or caring if I fell. I knew he would be there to help me up. — Kim Addonizio
She Smelled of Pine
The first winter I saw snow was the first winter I fell in love. I’ve always adored the holidays, but growing up in Florida meant I never experienced the “White Christmas” dream. After moving to Dallas, I started dating a woman who worked on a Christmas tree lot across the street from my apartment. Marleana would come over, smelling of pine, her arms toned from all the lifting. She was my lesbian Hallmark Christmas film fantasy. She even owned a shiny red truck that we drove in to find snow. Her Christmas gift this year? An engagement ring. — Hannah Melin
Love is the Way My Friends Laugh
I spent the last night of Hanukkah knee-deep in potato peelings with my closest friends. None of them are Jewish, but they were all eager. We ate latkes, passed the Shamash around my dining room table so we could each light a candle on the menorah. Watching my friends take such care with a religion that is not their own evoked an unexpected tenderness. Love is the way my friends laughed as we stood around my kitchen island on my last Hanukkah at home before college, squeezing grated potatoes into patties and sliding them into oiled pans. — Rachel Lynch
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