The Truth is a Theory by Karyn Bristol

Author:Karyn Bristol [Bristol, Karyn]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Wooden Dock Press
Published: 2019-06-19T22:00:00+00:00

Chapter 8

Journal Entry #8

January 5, 2001

When I was young, I anticipated Christmas with the same ambivalence that I felt as Matthew’s first day of kindergarten crawled toward me. I was excited in both instances because it was the time of year to be excited; the pre-game props of colored lights and Christmas carols or new pencils and a lunchbox can’t help but jangle up the nerves. But mostly I dreaded the arrival of Christmas like I dreaded the arrival of that big, yellow school bus I was supposed to shepherd Matthew onto. As always, my polished face hid the queasy feeling in my stomach, “Isn’t this exciting?!” Then later, after the sleigh, or bus, lumbered on its way, the world was startlingly quiet, a jolting fresh emptiness; my hand, still warm from the small piece of my heart briefly clenched there, waving, reaching.

We did try back in those cold Decembers. We hung ornaments and had Christmas rituals, although they were performed not so much as an exercise in unity, but as a mask for isolation. I relished my Christmas parties in school—the secret Santas, the sweet berry punch, the brightly frosted reindeer cookies. For a scheduled hour or two, I was a member of a sticky, delirious joy.

Dana’s boyhood Christmas’ on the other hand, were steeped in ceremony and love; holidays to the hilt. I imagine a lush, Town & Country celebration with polished silverware, gold-rimmed china, red velvet bows and black velvet dresses, a roaring copper fire, a snowy white neighborhood, a majestic green pine, all beautifully wrapped in warm, silky conversation. There was definitely no dread in his countdown to Santa.

Of course, when we were married, Dana and I opted for his family traditions instead of mine.

This year, Dana and I were determined to have a “normal” Christmas amidst a most unusual year, and we made sure that every detail played out as tradition scripted. Dana arrived early on Christmas Eve to help decorate the tree, and the kids, overjoyed to see him and already high on the holiday, clung to him, literally keeping one hand on him while using the other to hang ornaments. Then Dana organized his scavenger hunt, and in our search for treasure around our neighborhood, our joyous shouts—“I found a mailbox with a wreath!”—and bright-eyed laughter blew harder than the icy wind. After we burst back into the house, stomping our boots and peeling off layers, we lit a fire and sang and danced along with Bing Crosby and Frank Sinatra. We were fully connected as a family, and the happiness that crowded into the room took me by the shoulders and shook me, reminding me what a wonderful father Dana is to my children, and what a toll his absence is having on them.

And on me.

Finally, after our dinner of fondue (cheese for dinner, chocolate for dessert), Matthew and Gillian nestled into us for Dana’s animated reading of The Night Before Christmas. As the kids went up to bed, the stockings were

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