holiday ghosts

It was a weird Christmas, and while I enjoyed it, I was also swinging from happiness to despair in equal measure, sometimes within the course of an hour. I would be laughing in the kitchen and then wiping away tears surreptitiously  as I thought about how my mom would name her turkey some ridiculous human name before popping him in the oven. I would be enjoying a lively gathering with some new people--mostly actors from the acting school J works at--and then remember that the reason mostly I was there after years of being unable to attend was that I no longer had parents to celebrate the holiday with.  I sometimes feel like losing my father so close to the holidays was also like losing my mother all over again.  I helped to decorate the tree at the man who was hosting the dinner (J's boss) and the tree, and even the house, was drowning in the ghost of his wife he'd lost a while back. I sliced my finger while cutting carrots and bled in the bathroom, not crying because it hurt, but because everything changes. 

I muddled through with good company and good food.  Driving back to the north side along Lake Shore Drive with the glistening lights of the city at 2am felt a little like driving back after holiday gatherings in the dead of night, but that magicness of childhood couldn't be found here.  Yesterday, we drove out to Rockford for the postponed holiday with my sister (the snowstorm and cold the end of last week meant it was pushed back from Friday). Though our old traditions are changing, it was fun, and we exchanged gifts, ate food, and watched Christmas Vacation and Bad Santa, two holiday favorites. We stayed in a hotel with a very comfy bed and a prime view of the Walmart then headed back today since both of us had some work that needed to be done.  

In addition to some books and edibles and weed-related things I got as gifts, I managed to buy myself a handful of presents for myself--a new tablet for watching streaming, some spiced orange bath gel, some candles, a new wallet and messenger bag. My mom once said, when I was 8 and asking about Santa, who she admitted did not exist, that as long as I did not tell my sister the truth, we would always get gifts technically "from Santa." This persisted through the next 40 years of overly generous gifts at Christmas, even after she was gone, with my dad who would buy us stuff rom our Amazon wish lists. This year its just my money, being my own Santa, but hopefully when they arrive they'll bring a little joy.