The familiar merriment of my neighbor’s party reverberated in my room gaudily. Other neighbor’s ghetto blaster was playing nostalgic ditties. My landlord’s kitchen produced a rather delicious whiff. Outside, the sky was a sheer beauty to behold – the display of vivid colors of fireworks provided a much-needed animation to the rather bleak, weary space. My brother and I, lying in our respective beds, silently (no words were necessary to convey) figured it out: it’s Christmas, unmistakably, after all!
Since my mom and grandma’s demise, Christmas is just another prosaic, red-letter day for us. No fanfares. No brouhahas. No rituals. Heck, the greetings are even a coerced, almost squirmy, endeavor! The day passes unassumingly and we have our own little dramas to attend to.
This Christmas was far from being special. My brother, who came all the way from the province, visited me. Our itinerary for the Christmas Eve was predictably mundane: we went to the mall. Ate. Shopped. And said our little prayers at the chapel. When I finally mustered all the courage in the world, I greeted him. Unperturbed, he just squinted his eyes and shrugged it off.
I laid in bed feeling a little bit under the weather. The erratic climate conditions excruciated my tonsils. But more than that, I wailed for the sorry state of our family affairs. A mother’s death in the family just brings a terrible disorder of the status quo. What was once normal is improbable to reclaim.
Inundated with saccharine Christmas text messages from friends, I felt the urge to read them all (rather than customarily delete them) to fill the void sucking me in. One simple message from an erstwhile significant other put a smile on my face. It's been a long time coming but, finally, solace!
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