It’s an early Sunday morning in November, I’m sitting in the living room, in front of the Christmas tree, the red, pink, and blue lights give the room a warm glow. I’m 45 years old, drinking coffee, as Frank Sinatra sings “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas” in a slow and emotional pace. Just a few words in and you can find me crying to the song, no matter who sings it. This song always gets me. It’s the antidote to the cheerful and upbeat Brenda Lee songs I also blare this time of year.
The holidays are a mixed bag for so many of us. This time of year brings back childhood memories and a deep tinge of nostalgia. I’m not religious, more spiritual as most people our age say, not assigned to a specific denomination or system of belief. So, Christmas really isn’t a religious experience for me, it’s more cultural and familial. Memories are spiritual. Moments of observation are oxygen. I constantly observe others, my environment, myself, my cats, my own thoughts, and it’s, for the most part, inspirational, if not exhausting at times. For fifteen years, I’ve been trying to write about my childhood Christmases. The yearly trip to cut down the Christmas tree, the annual Holiday work party at my parents’ bowling alley, Christmas Eves spent sitting on the crushed red velvet couch at my grandparents’ home, and Christmas mornings, around the tree, opening stockings with my sister and brother. Then, there are the moments that I thought I would have by now. Another stocking on the fireplace, presents around our own tree, the sound of little feet clomping down the stairs. This bittersweet absence, a mixture of hope and exhaustion. Hope that it will still come true, exhaustion from clinging to that hope for so long.
This is another Christmas where I say:
Maybe next year.
Maybe next year.
Maybe next year.
Maybe next year.
Maybe next year.
Maybe next year.
Maybe next year.
Seven Christmases of: Maybe next year.
There’a literary term, suspension of belief, which basically means, against all odds of feasibility, a reader allows themselves to believe that the crazy twist or premise of a story is truly possible and rooted in reality. It’s reading a story and buying into the idea that something unbelievable, like cookies floating down from the sky, could actually happen. It’s a practice in suspending what you know or believe to be true. At least, that’s how I define the term. Over the years, I’ve worked hard at suppressing my feelings. I hold things close. I convince myself that whatever disappointment just occurred, it’s not a big deal, there are much worse things going on in the world. Natural disasters. The election. Reproductive rights. Global warming. I could go on. But, keeping a lid on my tupperware container of emotions hasn’t worked for me, it’s made me an anxious mess most of the time, and it’s draining.
I feel defeated.
I feel defeated In the aisles of the grocery store, the halls of my school, our quiet home, in the signing of holiday cards, and watching Christmas movies. Maybe next year. Maybe.
When I sit down to write, I usually have an end goal in mind. From wanting to capture a sweet moment, like the recent one, while out with my family for dinner, my dad watched a young family scramble to eat while also chasing a toddler around and feeding a baby. Those few tears in his eyes, as he said to the fellow dad: “I remember those days.” My hope, when writing about having our own family, my goal is always the same. It is always to feel better, to feel whole. Every time I write, that goal is never achieved, but the ache lessens, in micro amounts. The suspension of belief is upheld and for a few seconds, or even moments, I’m able to hold on to hope. Even if it didn’t happen this year. Even if I have no idea how things will turn out.
Even if…
Stefanie Wielkopolan 