He was a quiet man. His opening of gifts on Christmas Day was accomplished in a corner armchair with no show, no exclamations, no insistent expressions of gratitude. He knew my mother needed her space amid the stacks of presents we laid at her feet.
What do parents think when their grown children try to do Christmas for them? What do parents think about their own children's lives that look different in so many ways from how their own once looked? I want to think they had startled their own parents once upon a time, once upon a Christmas. I want to think that all the generations had sighed over bowls of fruit salad year in, year out, and had wondered -- each of them -- when they were going home.
3 comments:
For me, "home" is a slippery, sometimes-dangerous, sometimes painful memory.
The price of coming out has been, for me, the giving up of some good memories of one sort of 'home.'
The recollections of Home of my family-of-origin ain't so good.
But new things are coming to life, which I hope will make for good memories in later years (not that many of which I have). Blessings, cheers, and a happy Christmas for you.
My father was a different sort, full of childlike vivacity and stories to tell. One year he persuaded us to set out beer and pretzels for Santa, saying it would be a much appreciated treat. I think it was right, for Santa brought me a really nice bicycle that year.
Being a father can look lots of ways.
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