Christmas

Strongland ran into a skim of roiling water, his bare feet consumed by the rushing tide. My heart spilled into the Atlantic Ocean. I hear Strongland scream in delight as he throws handfuls of sand on his Mama; laughing, she backtracks, barefoot in the sand. This is what Christmas means.

My sister and I stood, arms hooked, in the cleansing water’s rippling transitions. For our mother, we offered prayers in silence. I held a broken shell, glittering and worn smooth, in my own hands, broken and worn. I gave it to her to take it to our mother. Waves slipped by and disappeared. We replenished the salt water, tear by tear.

Strongland and his cousins leapt and twisted in chrome sunlight, their feet leaving indentations in the water-packed sand, lasting a heartbeat or two before waves scrubbed all trace of them away. We are so easily washed away. Rejoice I say now. Rejoice in the imprint of others before they wash away. It has taken the birth of Strongland and the fading of my mother to understand what Christmas means.

On the beach I contemplated Christmas, two days past. I contemplated Christmas, ten years past. I contemplated Christmas forty years past. In the unraveling ocean I found myself opened, sealed, wrapped in darkness. I found myself discarded and crumpled again and again like wrapping paper. With the memory of Strongland opening presents and grinning and I am released from the darkness. This is what Christmas means.

I considered forgiving myself. I considered accepting what was offered to me. I have always felt guilt, even as a young boy, opening presents. With a grim internal monologue I unwrap each present offered. I never feel worthy of the contents. I have never done enough for the person who has offered me the gift. I am never enough. Please don’t look at me. I have not done enough for you. I am always tormented by the eyes that watch me open each gift. Accept these offered gifts. You are enough. I pray that being a good father makes me worthy. This is what Christmas means.

On the beach I considered my mother, alone in her bed. I thought of my last visit with her, the day before Christmas. I remember holding her hand only once; I was a child. We spent a summer in New York City. I recall her pulling me so fast along the sidewalk I could barely keep up.  A sensation of urgency, not comfort. It was time again. While us both had it. I pushed my hand into hers, now folded like origami, muscles contracted and locked. She smiled. Her hand clamped around mine. I want to read you something I wrote. Her eyes opened wide.

Indian Summer fades. Same as us. Even if we ain’t ready.

Come late November, the sun walks herself out backwards to wherever she lays low. This land gives way to the early reaches of winter. All around us the water drops. Cricks thin out. What was for most of the year, deep pools, usually too deep to wade, narrow down to resemble the closing eye of some old serpent with scales made of stones and polished threads of exposed minerals. Brittle leaves shuffle along the sediment, catch in runs, and swirl across the top of the water akin to caddis flies. Some springs run unbothered by events occurring outside their purpose.

Late Fall has always been my favorite turn of season—a final appearance of regal autumn cornstalks standing erect—a faithful and contemplative congregation. Knuckled leaves fold like hands clasping just-closed hymnals, waiting for the last soft echoes of a beautiful hymn to fade away. The stalks wait patient as their tough summer limbs get whispery and hollow and bow under the weight of the heavy husks. A hush will settle before the preacher’s harsh words warn of what might befall us if we ain’t careful in the ways we account for ourselves.

I’ve come to believe this whole world pauses one last minute to allow itself to turn red and yellow as if Strong Land was set with some last fever or anger at having to wither away to nothing. Whatever sadness they bear they hold to themselves. It doesn’t last much longer than a week. It won’t rain even if the low clouds beg for release. It just won’t. And finally, when nature’s truce gives way to the set course of the seasons, rains will come and begin to wash this world away.

My tears fell to my lap. My mother’s hand in mine. The hand that pulled me so urgently along the New York City sidewalks. Stay with me mom. Stay. I know her world is washing away. Into the ocean, and soil, and light she will go.

But in this moment, she has me, and I have her. My wife and child and my father and sister and niece and nephew and their father are all with her. We are so easily washed away. Rejoice now. Rejoice in the imprint of others before they wash away. This is what Christmas is.