Have Yourself.
It’s a week out from Valentine’s Day, and I’m still thinking about a Christmas tree.
It’s been down a week or so now. The past two winters I’ve been back in Chicago, the tree takes its station in the living room across the street from mine.
The first time I saw it was from the street, maybe getting out of my car or walking home, I can’t remember.
Wistful is a word to describe the feeling, I suppose.
I’m not really sure what Christmas means to me that isn’t built on a foundation of movies, TV, and America. It’s certainly something I’d put under the umbrella of “that American addiction” as Deb Olin Unferth put it in her fantastic story “Wait Till You See Me Dance.”
Pretty sure I’m the one who brought the whole idea home from school or a friend’s house. At some point, we got a fake tree, a colorful string of lights, sparkly garland, and, of course, the impetus of it all (I’m sure), presents. It was as basic as that. And, we did that every year until we didn’t.
I’d say the height of my personal Christmas mania was in my junior year of high school when I was invited by a very good friend to join her family’s Christmas celebration. I had a good feeling about it as I’d spent my first Thanksgiving apart from my family just weeks before with hers. Also, I was at the very beginning of a ridiculous crush on her brother. I’ll just say he was, and still is, straight, and I thought I loved him for far too long.
Their big family festivities were on Christmas Eve at her uncle’s place in the city. The uncle was charming and handsome, as was his “roommate." Also, a story for another time. Keep in mind, though, it was 1995.
In their living room was an enormous tree that was decorated to the max. It was department store quality with its innumerable ornaments and lights. It was that Christmas magic I’d truly only ever seen on TV. Presents spilling far out from beneath the tree, all gorgeously wrapped. There were stockings with everyone’s name. I nearly wept when I saw the one with my name on it. There were hors d’oeuvres aplenty and I stuffed my face. There was singing, there were games, lots of laughs, good cheer, and all that. I had a few more of those with them, and every time it gave me a sense of belonging and tradition that I yearned for since I was a kid.
In the 25 years since, I’ve had other memorable and warm holidays. Many quiet ones as well. None quite as grand as the ones at my friend’s uncle’s home.
My departure from those Christmases coincided with the deterioration and miserable chaos of that crush / teenage obsession in my early 20s. He was the first of many objects of my affection that never worked out because they were straight or uninterested or emotionally unavailable. Yadda yadda yadda…
I used to think What if I die alone? and it would send me to the window looking for rain.
Then, I started thinking that was indeed possible. I may die alone. People do every day. And I don’t want to lie there lamenting about not having met someone if I die single. Geez Louise. Too sad, and dumb. So, I’ve cultivated, and continue to work on, enjoying my life, enjoying myself as much as possible. To know joy on my own, from myself, and not have it be dependent on someone else.
I have had my slip-ups, familiar traps you might say, but I get up quicker. I wallow far less if I do at all. I keep an open mind, I think, on love but I’m not waiting for it.
But damn if that tree didn’t set my mind afire with thoughts of a husband, Christmas parties, clinking glasses, and, of course, presents.
I never decorate for Christmas, not really. One year (maybe two?), I bought one of those tiny trees at Trader Joe’s and a real short string of lights. It was fine. But I have this idea, and have had this idea for many years, that if I did have a boyfriend or husband or partner, I would become Martha Stewart and decorate with abandon.
The Tree itself is one of those vintage pink and white artificial trees. I don’t think it’s a tree that I’d ever buy for myself. In fact, until I saw it, I found those trees somewhat tacky, garish. And now, it sets something off in me that is overwhelmingly achy, yet hopeful. I think it’s beautiful.
A few times when I looked at The Tree while it was snowing, it made me think of another Christmas Eve some 20 years ago. I am driving back to my parents’ house from a friend’s, probably. It’s snowing. Those big fat, fluffy flakes. Along this route is a cemetery. I’m passing on its backside, I believe, the main entrance on a road parallel or perpendicular, I can’t remember which. There is a wrought-iron gate that I’ve never seen open with a car parked in front of it. The car is running as the headlamps light up trees, tombstones, snowflakes, and a man hopping over that gate with a bouquet of red roses tucked under one arm.
Anyhow, it’s a week out from Valentine’s Day, and I’m still thinking about a Christmas tree.