At Christmas, there is no difference between past, present and future. Time merges together. And that’s a melancholy feeling.
My stepfather was forever scarred by a toy he never got. His father had gotten him a cherished mini submarine. But he found it hidden away before Christmas.
As punishment for snooping, that toy never appeared under the tree. That moment bubbled up every Christmas. The long arm of Christmas past ruined the present for at least a few moments every holiday.
I remember the lean Christmases first. The ones where we were on welfare. Hope fading.
The one where I had to help my mother pick out one gift for my little brother. Because that’s all there would be. A responsibility that felt sickening.
I can’t remember the name of the pop band that dominated his tastes that year. But I remember helping my mother wrap the cassette tape inside a box inside a box – inside a box – nside another box.
As my brother opened one box after another after another, my mom started to laugh. The joy of that silly present was all that mattered. And briefly we glimpsed … hope for the future.
Christmas can be cruel sometimes. It’s not the presents that we remember – it’s the people and the moments.
Every holiday, I am haunted by those who aren’t there anymore. Despite her own life trials, my late mother truly loved Christmas.
And with each passing year as a parent myself, I understand her better. This Christmas we have four kids in college.
My 19-year-old twins don’t really live here anymore. One took a long train ride home from Vermont and the other flew home from Georgia. The older two nearby, but soon to be under our roof for the holiday.
I realize now how melancholy it must have been for my mother those years I couldn’t return home from California for Christmas. The fact that I was an adult didn’t matter. At Christmas, you want your family home with you.
I don’t really want to turn back the clock. But it’s hard not to think of my kids’ small smiling faces tearing through the wrapping paper of Christmases past.
Maybe we’re all prisoners of the Christmases of our childhood. Perhaps it’s because we remember an idealized version of those moments.
But the past is there to mold every Christmas. Maybe each year it takes on the shape of how we’re feeling in the present.
Because ultimately, Christmas is our lives condensed into a single day.
Editor’s note: Forrest’s late mother, Libby Demp Forrest Moore, wrote the Joyride column for the Herald for 20 years.
