De-Voted

We counted seven deer grazing in a the field in front of the airport. My mom came by herself to pick me up. Me in the front seat in jeans and a black hoodie, a pair of oversized headphones wrapped around my neck since they wouldn’t fit in my overstuffed bag.

“Texas is so ugly,” a woman behind me had said as the plane from Seattle landed in Dallas. There was no denying the ugly, flat brown expanse of it. I felt strangely defensive anyway. It may be big, and flat, and ugly, but it’s still home.

The flight from Dallas to College Station was mostly taking off and landing. We were only in the air for about thirty minutes. A handsome man had sat beside me reading a novel in some nordic language I didn’t recognize. Danish or Norwegian maybe. His long legs were folded up like origami, and he smelled like heaven. I sat for thirty minutes, achingly aware of his blue jeaned knees brushing against my own shorter ones. I’m always thankful for my stature when I fly.

The plane touched ground and he turned on a cell phone whose home screen was a summer photo of a pretty woman with a brown ponytail. Just as well. I looked for my mom in the parking lot, and couldn’t find her, so I texted her to honk.

Minutes later I was in her little black car, and we were driving past brown deer, nibbling, unconcerned, on brown, dead grass. It’s probably lucky for the deer that my dad was working, otherwise they might have ended up strapped over the roof of my mom’s car to later have their heads mounted on the wall of my old bedroom. There were precedents.

In my parents’ house I settled into my childhood bedroom, now occupied by my father’s hunting trophies, and the overflow of my mother’s closet. My father was working in West Texas so it was just my mother and I. We spent the days driving to College Station to shop and have lunch at chain restaurants I’d never have eaten at in Seattle, and evenings curled up on our respective couches in fleece blankets watching television.

“I wish A Christmas Carol would come on,” my mother said. “Or the Grinch. The old one.” Instead we mostly watched reality shows about people living in the Alaskan wilderness which has become my mother’s new obsession.

“I’d like to live off the grid like that.” She said. “Except with electricity and running water. And a grocery store nearby.”

“So exactly the way you’re living now?” I asked.

“Away from people.” She clarified.

When we weren’t watching people surviving the brutal winters in Alaska, we watched British mystery shows on PBS.

“Get off your phone!” My mother felt compelled to yell at me periodically.

I’d put my phone down momentarily and then pick it up again. Scrolling through profiles on a gay hook up app had become a compulsion. Interchangeable bearded men with muscular torsos with poorly written blurbs about what they’re looking for.

I’m just as guilty. My own profile pic is a filtered version of me with bulging muscles, chest hair damp with sweat after a recent workout, thick beard and baseball cap. A version of me that exists only in pictures. A profile that makes hairless twenty three year olds message me, “Hello Sir.”

But I’ve found that if I post a pic with a shirt on, I get no messages, and I am, above all else, an attention whore.

In actuality, I haven’t had sex, or even a date since June. I scroll through profiles hoping to stumble across a handsome man around my age who enjoys reading and quiet evenings at home with Netflix. But, as time passes, it becomes more and more difficult to even imagine a man who could possess all the qualities of someone that I’d look for in a potential mate. And, as time passes, I become less and less certain that a mate is something that I want in my life.

I spent the nights in my old bedroom, on a twin bed that felt like it was slanting to one side. The first few nights I was getting over a cold, so I took cold medicine that ordinarily would knock me out, but that instead had the opposite effect. I lay in bed, unable to sleep, my mind racing, imagining various endings of my supposed novel, of super powers, apocalypses, kinky sex, and sweet, romantic sex, and of a person who I could wrap my arms around and drift to sleep.

In November I participated in National Novel Writing Month. For that month I was dutiful and disciplined. I wrote every day, and managed the 50,000 word count with time to spare. Then the month ended, and I stopped writing again.

On November 16th, my grandmother died. She was 93. She’d raised 11 children of which my mother was the middle child. Five boys in a row, then six girls. She’d been sweet and vague. A kitchen presence that made fried potatoes and banana pudding. A collector of nic nacs. Of family photographs. Then she’d become cranky and forgetful. Then she’d spent years deteriorating until  she no longer remembered where she was, or who she was.

My mother and aunts had given up years of their lives taking care of her around the clock. She died at home, surrounded by family. The funeral was officiated by a man from my graduating class in high school. We’d grown up together, though had never been friends. He was a jock, most famous for having a large penis that I regretfully never saw. Of keggers and cocaine. At some point he’d become born again, and now is a youth pastor. His discovery of Jesus only made him more insufferable in my eyes, not less.

“He did a good job.” My mother told me over the phone. I didn’t fly home for the funeral.

One afternoon on my trip home my mother and I visited my grandmother’s grave. The cemetery was down a long, muddy, one-lane dirt road. It didn’t really hit me that my grandmother was really gone until I saw her grave. The fresh mound of loose earth. The headstone, already purchased years before when my grandfather passed, now with the date of her death filled in. So granite and finite.

My mother picked up a little Christmas tree the wind had blown over that was placed between my  grandparents’ graves. Red and gold ornaments glinted through fallen leaves. I picked through them and handed them to my mother. My mother staked down the tree so it wouldn’t blow over again, rearranged the fake poinsettias that someone else had left to her liking.

Nearby my uncle Bud’s tombstone had a cowboy hat on it. I wondered if I’ll have a grave, and what will they use to memorialize me? An iPhone. A muscled torso. A Lego. A book?

That Thursday my Father came home. Everything shifted to accommodate him. He watched old John Wayne movies in the living room, the TV blaring since he’s going deaf. My mother and I watched Poirot in her bedroom.

“Get off your phone!” She said.

We celebrated Christmas the Friday before. My job wouldn’t approve me to be off during the week of Christmas, so I had to go home a week early. The holiday wasn’t the same with my grandmother gone anyway. We’d always spent Christmas Eve at her house, filled to capacity with my aunts and uncles, my cousins and their children. Now the family splintered. My aunts all have grandchildren of their own.

I feel guilty for not having been the son my parents wanted. For not giving them a daughter in- law to complain about and grandchildren to dote on.

It’s just my mom, dad, and I opening presents in front of a tiny, artificial tree that my mother decorated alone. My mother opened the gift from me, a bracelet of gold hearts that she picked out and purchased herself. My father got shirts and accessories for his new, decked-out pick up truck. My mother gave me money and gift cards. My father gave us all scratch-off lottery tickets. I tell him I’d rather have the money that he’d spent on them.

We sat in the kitchen scratching off our lottery tickets. I won $5. I asked my dad how much he spends on lottery tickets every week, but he wouldn’t say.

“Stop squandering my inheritance, old man!” I told him.

I wonder what he would do if he won big. They already own their house and vehicles outright. He already refuses to retire because he doesn’t know what to do with himself. I wonder, but don’t ask him what his dream is. At this point in our relationship, a natural conversation seems impossible.

Over breakfast my dad asked if my clients at work are all black.

I was completely confused by the question, since I work at a cancer center, until my mom clarified. “He thinks you still work for the welfare office.”

I yelled at my dad for being racist. Then I yelled at him again for voting for Trump. “Republicans want to get rid of Medicare and Social Security. What are you going to do?” I asked.

“I am a lifelong democrat.” My dad said. “I just didn’t like Hillary Clinton.”

I was actually speechless.

The truth is…I voted for the first time at the age of 42.

When I was younger I wasn’t interested in politics. I thought it was one, rich white man who didn’t represent me or my values going against some other rich, old white man. Seeing the intelligent and capable Al Gore win the popular election, only to have the Supreme Court stop the recount in a very close race in a state governed by his competitor’s brother just made me believe that it was all fixed. Voting was pointless. The victor was predetermined by the powers that be, and choice was an illusion. I was apathetic.

When Obama ran the first time around I actually intended to vote. I filled out my mail-in ballot, but I accidentally circled in the wrong response on one of the local initiatives, so I didn’t want to send it in. When Hillary ran against Trump, I wanted to vote, but I was registered in Illinois, and we were living with C’s parents in California at the time of the election.

So finally, in middle age, I became engaged, and for the first time became actively involved in my governance. I still feel unrepresented, unvoiced, and apathetic. But, until we take to the streets in open revolt, it seems that voting is my only real recourse, so…I’ve become a voter.

My mother made Christmas dinner for the three of us. We sat around the kitchen table, which is metallic rimmed in the style of a 50s diner.

I scooped up cornbread dressing and deviled eggs with a giant roll. My mother collects 50s, red plastic kitsch, and has recently begun to amass a disturbing number of “mammy” figurines.

“Please stop buying these racist things.” I asked her.

“They aren’t racist!” My mother said. “They’re collectibles.”

She went on to tell me that she’s going to start taking pictures of all of her collected items with prices indicating how much they’re worth so I can sell them after she dies. “If your daddy shacks up with some floozy after I die,” she says, “Don’t let her get her hands on my chickens.”

On Saturday they both drove me to the airport.

I hugged them both goodbye. “You don’t have to go,” my mother said, holding back tears. “You can stay here.”

I feel guilty for wanting so badly to get back to Seattle, to my own tiny apartment, my own bed, my friends and my life.

On the flight from Dallas to Seattle I was dismayed to find myself sitting beside a chatty, young member of the armed services. He was in the Air Force, and noticed me playing my Switch. We talked about video games and discovered that we share a favorite game in Skyrim.

“Back at the base I play it on Oculus Rift.” He says. “I’m usually the only one in the officer’s lounge. Everyone old enough to drink goes off base, and everyone else is too young, so I have the video games all to myself.”

He talked to me at length about astro physics while I occasionally said, “that’s really interesting,” or “I didn’t know that.” Ordinarily I’d put on my headphones to discourage conversation, but his loneliness was palpable, and I didn’t have the heart to ignore him.

As we left the plane, I wished him a safe trip back to Alaska.

On Christmas Day, two of my faggles and I had Chinese food for lunch in the International District. The first restaurant that we went to was so crowded that we decided to find another, less popular place to ignore the birth of the baby Jesus. The place we ended up didn’t seem very busy, but an hour and thirty minutes after we arrived, we still hadn’t gotten our food. Brian ended up going back to his car and getting some cookies another friend had given him for us to snack on until our food finally arrived.

Despite terrible service, a ridiculously long wait for food, and finally being overcharged when the bill arrived, it was wonderful to be able to spend Christmas Day not with my biological family, but with the family of my choosing. The rag-tag bunch of misfits with whom I can actually be myself. We talk, and laugh at the ridiculousness of our surroundings. With them beside me I look forward to the year ahead. To love, and laughter, brunches and Bloody Marys.

My family will always be complicated, my love life may always be feast or famine, but my friends can always be counted on to love me for me. And to them, I remain hopelessly and happily devoted. Although if Sassy Bear ever reads this, I deny everything, you filthy whore!

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Holidays on the West Coast

stockingsDowntown the Boy Scouts are selling Christmas trees. People walk past in board shorts and sandals. Cars roll by with surf boards strapped to their rooftops. Little Mexican markets sell horchata with cinnamon and breakfast tacos. People are wrapping the palm trees in their yards with strings of Christmas lights.

On my days off I walk to the beach and back in my unfashionable anywhere else carpenter shorts and gray hoodie. I walk to the beach to be alone. I walk because I find the sound of crashing waves to be soothing. Sometimes a hot, shirtless guy will walk out of the water, chest glistening in the pale sun, and sometimes tan guys are playing volleyball, or surfers are climbing into or out of their wetsuits. Usually though, the local beach is only littered with older couples, retirees from the UK, pasty in sun hats. I walk to the beach because there is nothing else to do here besides walking to the beach.

A few weeks after moving I landed the best job I’ve had in a decade. It pays well, and doesn’t involve me interacting with any people, so it easily eclipses the string of entry level positions I’ve had since we first started bouncing from city to city. During the week, we wake up at 6 am, get dressed in the cold garage where our clothes are still in boxes and bags, and C drives me to work. Since we share one car, he drops me off in case he gets called in for a job interview, or wants to go somewhere while I’m at work. I work from 7 to 3:30 in a cubicle where no one speaks to me.

After work, I walk around the corner to the gym and work out for an hour. A little-person with frat boy hair and Iron Maiden tattoos sold me my membership, which I took as a harbinger of good tidings. The locker room is full of unabashed old men who stand naked and sagging as they talk about golf and the upcoming marriages of their adult children.

After the gym I walk down to catch the bus back home. The buses don’t seem to run on any kind of schedule. Sometimes the bus is crowded, and I sit crammed next to an Asian kid in a suit who falls asleep on my shoulder, and sometimes I sit alone and listen to a couple of men argue about politics. I stare out the window as the dark gets darker, and the wind whistling through the windows grows cold.

On our seventh anniversary we drove up the coast and spent the weekend in a cheap hotel in San Luis Obispo. We had sex for the first and only time since we’ve moved, taking advantage of the brief window of space and privacy. Then we wandered the city, spending money we shouldn’t have on clothes from overpriced shops, and browsing through book and record stores. We wandered all over looking for a sushi place, but the first place we went to had an hour wait, and the next place we went to ignored us until we left, so we ended up having an anniversary dinner at a bar and grill where we waited for over an hour for food, only to walk back to our hotel to discover it was right next door to a sushi place where we could have eaten in the first place.

I didn’t want to go back to his parents’ house. Not because they are unkind or unwelcoming, because nothing could be further from the truth. They’ve been nothing but warm and accommodating. I just didn’t want to sit in their cold garage, watching re-runs of cartoons we’ve seen a dozen times which has become the new normal. We’ve looked at some apartments, but until C gets a job,we can’t actually afford to move out of his parents’ house. Even once he gets a job, I don’t know how we’re going to possibly afford an apartment here that isn’t really far away from my work, and/or a total dump. We’ve started talking about maybe buying a home because the mortgage would be lower than the rent, but then we’d be living far out in some small town, even more isolated than we are right now.

Back at his parents’ house, we watch home movies from when C and his little brothers were young. C was a surly, little smart-ass. (Not much has changed). We watched him rollerblading down the sidewalk in 90s clothes with feathered hair. We watched his brother Jesse playing soccer, and his brother Anthony running around as a naked toddler through the sprinklers.

“My weiner is a lot bigger now.” Anthony says.

“Anthony!” His dad yells, and we all laugh.

On Thanksgiving his mother makes a turkey, and I make cornbread dressing like my mother makes back in Texas. It doesn’t come out very well, but everybody says it’s good anyway. I sit at the table eating turkey and green bean casserole, wishing instead that I was back home in Texas, sitting at the kid table and arguing about the recent election with my republican relatives.

Being the odd man out in someone else’s family has left me with with a constant feeling of homesickness.

The day after Thanksgiving is C’s birthday. I got him a Kindle and some yoga shorts, and we we go out for breakfast at a small cafe, and then drive to Santa Barbara and walk along a beach that’s overlooked by tree-lined cliffs. We walk past the pale tourists and the leather skinned locals, looking for starfish and seashells. We want to go out for a late lunch, but all the Sushi places that he wants to go to are closed, so we settle for a bar and grill that has an “adults only” section, eating overpriced Mexican food with a view of the ocean.

Back home, his parents barbecue ribs for dinner, and we sit in the back yard around a chimenea. Back in Chicago I’d still be wearing short sleeves in the 50s and 60s, but in California, the cold seems colder. We shiver around the fire with glasses of wine and bottles of beer. C gets very drunk and demands that we watch Sleeping Beauty, so we sit in the living room while he sings along to Once Upon a Dream. I put him to bed in the fold-out couch while I curl up in a blanket on the couch opposite him. At night I listen to him snore as his dad snores down the hall in unison. I doze off for an hour at a time, and wake up feeling lost in still unfamiliar surroundings, wishing more than anything that I still had a big, comfortable bed like the one I had back in Seattle.

After Thanksgiving, C’s mom puts up the Christmas tree and hangs stockings on the fireplace mantle. I see the green and red stocking with the letter L, for Lance, and my eyes well up with tears. It’s touching that I’m included in their holiday, that I’m a part of their family. But it only makes me feel more homesick for my own dysfunctional family who I won’t be able to spend Christmas with this year.

Today it rains, and we sit on the back porch and watch the rain.

“People go crazy when it rains here.” His dad says. “Because it never happens.”

The clouds roiling over the mountains look surreal, like a landscape from a dream. Oranges are ripening on the tree in the corner of the yard. The dog refuses to go outside for a walk. C looks at me and says, “I’m never going to drink again.” I sit in a corner on the couch that at night becomes my bed and play a video game on my phone. When the rain stops, maybe I’ll go for another walk along the beach.

Until then, I sit and listen to the din, the rain, C’s little brother saying something about vaginas and laughing to himself, and C’s dad yelling at his little brother, and the dog barking, and his mom clanging pots and pans in the kitchen.

I wonder if we’ll have an apartment soon, and if not, how long I can handle the lack of space before I collapse into a puddle on the garage floor, or load up the car and drive away to parts unknown? I wonder if we’ll buy a house and settle here, if we’ll become proper Californians, sun tanned and sitting in cafes demanding organic, gluten-free everything. I wonder if I’ll ever stop being homesick, and will actually just be able to feel like I’m finally home.

A Christmas to Forget

xmas2010The night before the night before Christmas we opened our presents to each other. He got me a new pair of headphones, and Ninja-bread cookie cutters. I got him an overpriced workout hula hoop and some essential oils. He’d considerately sent me the links to each in the weeks leading up to X-Mas in his completely unsubtle way of letting me know what he wanted.

We’d attempted to go out for holiday sushi, but the internet led us first to a Japanese place that was closed, and then to one that didn’t seem to exist. After driving aimlessly, we finally ended up at Kirby Lane which is our default restaurant when nothing else pans out. Christmas music played overhead as I ate a bison Frito pie and listened to his little brother quote lines from Will Ferrel movies like some b-grade comedy savant.

Back at our unfurnished apartment, our stockings were hung over the fireplace, empty because we’d raided them repeatedly for candy in the days leading up to X-Mas. The lights on our tiny tree blinked on and off in epileptic fits of holiday cheer. When C opened his present, he smiled and hugged me, but I couldn’t help but feeling like a failure. Last year I’d gotten him an iPad. Then again, everything about this year is watered down, a more disappointing version of what was expected, so why should Christmas be any different?

On the morning of Christmas Eve, C and his little brother drove me to meet my parents. Because C had to work that evening he needed the car, so my parents volunteered to come pick me up. But because they’re terrified of “the big city” they wouldn’t come all the way into Austin, so we met them in Bastrop.

To her credit, my mom got out and shook C’s hand and told him it was nice to see him again, and did her best to smile as if she meant it. My dad, on the other hand, didn’t even get out of the car. C and his little brother drove away waving, and I looked back, wishing that I was spending the holiday with them at the Alamo Drafthouse watching the Hobbit sequel.

On the ride home my dad asked what C did for a living, and asked if the car was in my name or both of our names. My grandmother called every few minutes, asking what day it was, when she was supposed to take her pills, which pills she was supposed to take, where her pills were, etc…

“If I ever get like this, I’m going to kill myself, so you won’t have to deal with it.” My mom says over her shoulder to me in the back seat.

We stop at a grocery store to buy some coconut flakes for a pie, and my dad declares that it’s “The Bad HEB” because only Mexicans and blacks shop there. The store is bad, run down and poorly stocked, and there is a disproportionate number of blacks and hispanics shopping there, but I don’t point out the fact that this doesn’t imply a causal relationship.

After the store my aunt Sally calls my mom to tell her not to get coconut flakes because she has some already.

We go to the Post Oak Mall in College Station and I let my mom buy me some new shoes because it makes her happy, and because I need them and can’t afford any on my own. We eat lunch at a Mexican Restaurant in the mall, and my dad tells me once again that I need to get a wife and give him a grandson. I tell him that C might have something to say about that, and my mom changes the subject.

On Christmas Eve we always go to my grandma’s. When we were kids there’d be a mountain of gifts under the tree, and it felt like torture having to wait until everyone arrived before we could open them. This year the kids and presents were sparse. Now they are my little cousins’ children who can’t wait, and the adults are mostly bored and resigned and ready to go back to their own respective houses.

As per my usual, I sat in an inconspicuous corner and tried my best to blend in to the scenery. I wore a baseball hat that I only wear when I visit my family, and sat by a shelf of old photographs in my green, wooly sweater. My cousin Clint asked about C, and how much he likes Texas.

“He hates everything about it.” I said. Which is true. We were barely in Austin for a few weeks before we’d started planning where to move next.

I go back to the kitchen repeatedly for piece after piece of my mother’s homemade Christmas candy.

Before we leave my grandmother asks me to come sit on the couch with her. She asks me where I’m living now, and I tell her I’m in Austin.

“Austin?” She says, surprised.

We sit and talk a bit, and then she turns to me asks, “Who am I here with?”

I tell her, “Maw maw, this is your house. You live here.”

She smiles absently, and asks, “Am I here with Jean?” That’s my mom.

So I just nod.

When we leave she says to my mother, “I’m just bunking here, then?” My mom explains again that she’s home. That this is the house she and my grandfather built over thirty years before. But it doesn’t seem to register.

Back in my room in an uncomfortable twin bed, I cannot sleep. I toss and turn all night wishing he was beside me, unaccustomed to the absence of his heat, the sound of his breathing, the feel of his skin on my skin.

Christmas morning at 6 am the television in the living room blares to life and I hear the keen of gunshots from the old western my dad is watching. At 7:30 he comes in without knocking as I’m putting pants on because he wants to open presents.

I got my mom a book I knew she wanted, and my dad scratch off lottery tickets (He won $32.) I, in turn, got money, which is good, because without it I wouldn’t be able to pay the rent, and socks and gift cards to Amazon, and the requisite candy.

We loaded up the car with a turkey, rolls, bottles of soda, deviled eggs and pies (my mom ended up not making a coconut one), and headed back to my grandmother’s.

“I like that sweater.” My mom says.

“C’s mom got it for me.” I tell her. Which is true, but I make a point of saying it so that she feels at least a little guilty for never having gotten C anything, and barely acknowledging his existence.

At my grandmother’s house, my aunt Linda, uncle Tommy and his wife Lori were trying to get my grandmother out of bed. She refused to get up, or put on clothes, or come eat breakfast. My mom made coffee and toast and brought them to her, but she refused them too, so my mom made oatmeal which she also wouldn’t touch.

She was talking at first, but then became incoherent, and then she stopped saying anything, closed her eyes and became unresponsive. After several minutes of her seeming to be semi-conscious, my aunt called 911. They were worried that she’d had a stroke.

We waited for the ambulance to come, hearing the siren wailing down the quiet, country road long before we saw the lights. Two paramedics came in, a man and a woman, wheeling a stretcher. They asked some questions about my grandmother’s health. When the woman paramedic attempted to find my grandmother’s heartbeat with her stethoscope, my grandmother perked up enough to ask, “Who are you, and why are you in my bedroom?”

Then she drifted out again, and became unresponsive. They loaded her up onto the stretcher as my mom struggled to put on her socks and shoes, and wheeled her out and into the waiting ambulance.

My mom and aunt and uncle Billy rode after them, while the rest of us piddled around my grandmother’s house, uncertain what to do. Other relatives arrived, and my aunts busied themselves with making dinner. Toddlers I didn’t recognize ran around the living room with shiny new Christmas toys.

My dad and I ate while we waited to hear something from my mom about how my grandmother was doing. My mom called while we were having dessert. My grandmother was talking again, and they were awaiting the results of a CT scan, though a mini stroke wouldn’t show up on it anyway, if that’s what she’d had.

My dad and I went back to my parent’s house. He watched some John Wayne movie, and I retreated to my old bedroom and watched episodes of Dr. Who. Later he was snoring on the couch, and woke up with a headache saying, “This drummer in my head must be a nigger, because he doesn’t miss a beat.” I remind myself that one day he’ll die and I’ll inherit his money.

My mom comes home. They’d released my grandmother from the hospital saying they could keep her for observation, but there’s so many sick people in the hospital, she’d be better off at home.

My parents drive me back to Austin in a gray, drizzle. We ride in silence. My dad had me re-set his password on his e-mail on his phone, and change his phone’s background image for him. I wonder what’s going to happen next year, or the year after, or whenever the time comes that my grandmother passes away what our family Christmases will be like. All of my cousins now have families of their own, children, spouses, extended families. But my parents only have me.

Because C and his little brother are at the movies, my parents have to drive me all the way to my apartment. One road leads all the way there. They only have to take the exit for South 1st, turn right onto South 1st, and my apartment is right there. It’s the easiest thing in the world, but my mom acts as if she’s having to navigate a T-65 X-wing star fighter to blow up the Death Star.

When we make it to my apartment, she proclaims, “I’m never coming to this hell hole again!” Referring to Austin.

We hug goodbye and wish one another merry Christmas. My dad doesn’t get out of the car. I walk up the stairs to my apartment wishing that I could just forget this Christmas. Without the childhood luster of excitement, the adult holiday is comprised entirely of stress and disappointment. I almost envy my grandmother, because of all of us, she’s the only one who isn’t going to remember Christmas this year.

Inside I eat some Christmas candy and turn on my computer, waiting for C and his brother to get home so that we can make a post Christmas feast, so that they can tell me what their parents sent them. So that we can sit down together and laugh, and quote bad movies. And then it dawns on me. I have my own extended family too. Maybe not the one my parents hoped for, or the one that I expected, but the one I love, and the one that loves me.