Not desiring holiday music, I selected Jazz for listening and laid down with the calling of a book.
Nestled far into the second chapter, bellicose thoughts started to keep company with me on the couch. Something nudging me for a piece of my peace with each turning of the page. A lost Christmas memory surviving to be unwrapped.
Letting my book rest upon my chest, I allowed the memory a seat. It was you. How long had it been since I had thought of you or entertained your residue in the folds of my mind?
Struggling a moment with the math, I finally came up with twenty-eight years of Christmas past.
There was a snow fall that morning, though I don’t remember the roads. Long before my fear of driving in the snow.
My need to leave the newness of the family I was part of, craving what was known. Excusing myself for a few hours and I drove.
Knocking with a gift in hand. I cannot recall all these years later what gift I brought and I now wonder? Your voice answering my knock, you unwilling to leave your bed. Two rooms deep into the apartment, I found you, laid out with a book, alone on Christmas Morning.
I remember your face and the joy it gave, welcoming me! All of our arms grasping for home.
I replaced your book and I recall we talked and slept for hours, and somewhere in the in between, unwrapping each other because it was all we had ever known and both of us just wanting to go home.
I slipped away from you, long after I had promised to be back to the shell, I then called home. Leaving you alone with your book.
I remember you told me a few years after, I had saved you that Christmas morning. I remember you said, you were in a darkness, disheartened and alone and I came like Clearance the Angel to your door… calling you home.
Now twenty-eight years later I find my own self in solitude reading, and lulled by jazz, burrowed in what I have built for my home.
You came calling, a Christmas ghost and I welcomed you briefly. I sat with you, and the memory of those long ago moments, decorated by us on a Christmas day, when we needed to go home.
Myself now knowing there is a difference in being left and in choosing to be alone.
The memory of a Christmas Day Twenty-eight years later, a presented gift, an awakening to the understating that I may have finally learned to refuse to be anywhere which does not feel like home.
Christmas reading… a book the prompt to a Christmas memory which reminded me… I am home.
~Amy Kate Frazier