Long, long ago, in a land far away, there was a boy. A very special boy with red hair, a My Little Pony collection, and a mermaid obsession. All through childhood and even into college, this little boy lived for Christmas day. Towards the latter part of this period in his life, he would send out an average of two hundred Christmas cards each year. He would buy a gift for everyone he knew—friend, co-worker, acquaintance. He hated Santa, not only because he is a child molester but also because he seemed to take away from the true meaning of Christmas. Christmas spirit and magic lived in this boy’s soul everyday of every year.
As the years went by, life’s trial, tribulations, joys, and celebrations helped to form and change this child. He became stronger, better looking (at times), more independent, less optimistic but more content, more real. Christmas began to take on new meaning. It became more intensely focused on those who were walking through his everyday life with him—his immediate family his friends who became kin. It remained a firm symbol of his faith and his heritage.
One morning, five days before Christmas in his twenty-ninth year, a realization came upon him. He no longer resembled Tiny Tim, spreading Christmas joy and cheer to the masses. He had become covetous with his Christmas love, only offering to the select few with whom he shared his soul. While co-worker after co-worker brought him pumpkin loaf, chocolates, cookies, and cards, he grumbled inside, muttering of the plot against his waist line. “You’ll get no present from me, I need not more obligation to shop at Christmas time,” he chanted in his head. No more stamps for Christmas cards, no more writing people he only heard from once a year. He would walk through the halls with his head held high and his Amazon Visa firmly in place in his wallet.
Even though ‘Bah-humbug’ flitted through his mind on more than one occasion as certain obligatory opportunities passed his way, Christmas time seemed to mean more to him, in a more real and genuine way. Even Santa had become a kindred soul (with the exception of the old man’s child obsession)—desperate times, desperate measures. As he opened his email and received a card from a dear, sweet, co-worker friend, he gagged and had to rein it all back in. There, taking the form of a beautiful Christmas tree and twinkling lights glared out the reminder of the rape that has happened to his beloved Christmas time. “Happy Christmas, Merry Everything” the card read. What a wonderful way to include everyone, truly touch no one, and miss the point entirely.
He thought back to the weekend before, the annual Christmas dinner with the men in his life who had become his brothers. He remembered their love and their devotion. He thought about the annual Christmas Eve slumber party with his little brother that would transpire in a few short days. He thought about Christmas morning around the tree with his family and dogs. He thought about Christmas night exchanging presents and kisses with the man he loved. Christmas may not be the way it was. Christmas may be lost to most of the world. He, the lucky Scrooge, would be safe in the real meaning of the day, surrounded by those he loved--human, deity, and dog.
Black Coffee Tables
1 year ago