When I left Austin, I sold my house and my possessions, I quit my jobs and said goodbye to friends to be with you in Colorado. I had no doubts. I did not look back when we drove down my street that December day in the moving truck. You, Kira, and I – the wind in our hair, the future at our fingertips, and the past in our back pockets. I didn't have a fear in the world. Neither did you. We were so sure this was the right path for us. Nothing could go wrong. We were so incredibly in love. We were so incredibly happy. And it stayed that way.
Fast forward one year. It is almost Christmas. I live in your house with your ghost. I am on unstable ground. The man I love is gone. My best friend is dust. My security is ripped out from under me. I am in disbelief. I am uncertain about my ability to move forward in life. I don't know how I will ever be happy again. I am uninspired by anything I'd ever been inspired by, except for you. But amidst my depression and confusion, the world is reminding me with a pearly white smile that it's Christmas time.
I have stepped into an even darker place in my grief, but the world around me is still spinning. Christmas trees are going up. People are still getting married. Pregnant friends are giving birth. Holiday parties are happening. Workers are getting their year end bonuses. Yoga friends are sticking new poses and being inspired by new Rumi quotes. But my world isn't like their world anymore. I no longer want to hear about their children's Christmas recital. I don't want to hear about the holiday cookie recipe. I don't care about a new haircut. I don't give a shit what's the special on the dinner menu. I don't want to know how to make a crafty Christmas tree out of books.
It is all so pointless without you.
I think about a year ago. Soon after we arrived in Boulder, we decided to put up a Christmas tree. We went to choose one at a farm. I drank apple cider and you drank tea. We carried the cups in our mittened hands. I wanted a huge tree and you wanted to make me happy – but really, you wanted a small live tree. So we got two: a huge cut tree and a small live tree in a pot. We decided we would plant the live tree after the holiday. We would buy a live one every year and create a little forest of them all on our land. That way someday, when our family grew, we could show the kids our own little Christmas tree farm and we could add to it together.
The afternoon we brought our tree home, we set it up in our living room. I played Michael Buble and Mariah Carey Christmas carols and you didn't complain. You sang along. We made eggnog cocktails while we decorated the tree. I made the first round and we decided you would make the next. We would make it an eggnog cocktail competition! You wrapped the lights around our gigantic Douglas Fir. We sipped our cocktails, danced to the music together, and began to unwrap decorations. For a Jew, I have quite the Christmas collection. You listened to my stories about each ornament. I had purchased a new one every year for Kira. We looped metal hooks through glass bulbs and climbed the ladder to place the decorations all around our tree, working together to find bald spots and keeping the colors consistent. I took a photo of you decorating the tree and texted it to your mom.
After we finished our first round of cocktails, you headed into the kitchen to try to top my holiday cheer concoction. I heard the blender going from the living room and wandered in to see what was going on. The countertop was scattered with bottles. You had mixed Jack Daniels Honey, Brandy, Tres Leches liqueur, organic eggnog, and Himalayan sea salt – with a cinnamon and nutmeg garnish. Your cocktail was undoubtedly the winner.
We sipped our second round, allowing the strong liquor to warm our bones. We continued to decorate – the tree sparkled with blue, silver, and gold bulbs – an homage to my tribal heritage. You made fun of me because I wanted our tree to look like it was fresh out of a catalog. I had suggested we put all the goofy ornaments on the small live tree so they wouldn't offend our big classy tree. You rolled your eyes, but concurred.
At some point that night we came up with the ingenious idea for an impromptu holiday party. We decided we would have a huge bash the next week and invite dozens of friends. It would be an 80s theme and everyone would wear white. Sometime around this time, I made a third round of drinks that involved strawberry ice cream, coffee liquor, and eggnog – obviously we were getting quite drunk. We took a break from decorating to start designing an invitation for the party.
We never sent out the invites that night. When we woke up the next morning fuzzy from eggnog cocktails, we realized the party was probably not the best idea. But while our heads were a bit sore, the tree looked fantastic.
We also never planted the small live tree. We left it inside the house through the Spring. You watered it regularly but it slowly died. We put it out on our deck and it's still there today. It's a dead skeleton of brittle sticks. Maybe the little tree knew we wouldn't get to celebrate a second Christmas together.
As I wrap gifts for next week's holiday, I think about all the things I was going to get you – a new hardware case for your drums, a cahone, new cashmere sweaters. You had hinted that Santa was bringing me a new laptop, mine was on its last leg. And yet, the getting and gifting is so incessant now. Because all I want for Christmas is you. The traditions seem broken. Because they were to be carried out with you. Children's laughter seems like a cruel joke. It was supposed to blossom into our children's laughter. Every store I walk in has a soundtrack that offends me with cheer. Holiday movies swarm the channels and remind me of how sad it is to not snuggle up next to you to.
So here I sit alone, paralyzed by this loss, while the world still twirls around me. I thought nothing could go wrong. I was so sure.
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