It’s Not Christmas Until You Cry

It’s still the first week of December and already Christmas is in full blast everywhere. All that joy is hard to handle when you can’t seem to take part. It is much like being around a bunch of drunk friends when you yourself are completely sober. The moods and feelings they are experiencing don’t translate into the non-imbibing mind. Everything is too loud, off key, and none of it seems to fit no matter how you smile and try to pretend you are having a good time. 

Each year I dread “the season” for I know sooner or later all that joy is going to bowl me over, leaving me crushed in the holiday detritus. I ignore it as much as I can for as long as I can.

Yesterday, I stopped at the mall in Tucson for some new hiking boots. I was tired of the cactus thorns sticking me through my old walking shoes as I walked in the desert each morning. The views are too beautiful to waste by having to avert my eyes to see where I am putting my feet. I just need thicker shoes. Okay, I know that is a bit silly, but there actually is some truth in it. Needing hiking boots overcame my dislike of malls and was the reason for my trip.

But, oh, Lord. Santa was there. I hate Santa. No, that isn’t true. I hate seeing little boys on Santa’s knee. It’s all about that picture I used to have (and we’re back to that word “joy” again). It’s about the picture with Santa and the joy in my little boy’s eyes the photo caught so well.

Can’t go there. Can’t go there. I just wanted to get the boots and go. I avoided Santa, crushing the thoughts that tried to sneak in as I hurried to the sporting goods store.

Once there, I quickly found the hiking boots I needed. All I cared about was that they were thick, relatively comfortable, and in my size. You know how I hate to shop so it was in and out. Package in hand, headed for the door to run the gauntlet of Christmas down the aisles of the mall.  Nearly made it, too, Mikey. 

I could avert my eyes from the lights and Christmas trees (and from Santa) but the music kept penetrating through. Most of those songs have little effect but some have daggers in every note. Luckily, they didn’t play “Silent Night” with its horrifying line of “sleep in heavenly peace”, but there are other dangerous songs. In the distance, I could see the wide swatch of doors where I could escape. My pace quickened as I fought the weight of Christmas gravity that seemed to be pulling me down. Then, the Carpenters came on with “that song.” You know which one.  

It was a beautiful song I used to love to sing. But events changed the meaning of the lyrics; changed the mood of the song. The last time I sang it or heard it was at that last Christmas party at your house. A night I’m sure we both won’t forget. All of us were loaded, you, me, all of our friends. I don’t remember whose drunken idea it was to go caroling our neighbors, but at the time it seemed like a hilarious thing to do. You grabbed my guitar and my hand as you pulled me out the door. Off we went: you, me, Billy, Ellie, and five or six more, to torment your rather peaceful and not always tolerant neighbors.

I don’t remember how many houses we visited, six, seven, but we had a ball. We were rather well received despite our obvious alcohol-fueled Christmas spirit. We sang the classics: “Jingle Bells”, “White Christmas”,  “Deck the Halls”, and “Rudolph, the Red-nosed Reindeer”. What a blast it was and is my favorite Christmas memory of all times because of the fun we had, singing, and cutting up. Ah, and then there was your finger. You couldn’t hold my hand for I was playing the guitar but you kept one finger stuck through one of my belt loops on my jeans. You didn’t tug or pull. You just held on there. Held onto me like you were keeping me safe. Yes, it’s a silly thing to remember but it brings warmth to my thoughts even now.

When we got back to the house, we hit a bit of a lull and things got a little quieter for a while. Billy wanted to sing some more. I picked up my guitar and he asked if I knew “I’ll Be Home for Christmas”? As I played, he sang that mostly alone for I knew that’s what he really wanted to do.

That song got us even a little more subdued or maybe it was just me. Then, someone asked if I could play the Carpenters’ song, “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas”, a song that seemed to be on the radio every five minutes that year. We sang that with nearly everyone joining in. Then, things were quiet for a minute as I just strummed the strings a bit.

A song came to me, that other Carpenters song, which had long been one of my favorites. So, I started singing “Merry Christmas, Darling”. No one else knew the words or, maybe, they didn’t join in because they heard the emotion in my voice as I started to sing it all by myself. 

With the song, my mind had moved on to the overwhelming thoughts that were ever-present those days. Thoughts that I knew I had to face. I had not completely made up my mind as to when but was certain I was going to have to move on. We had talked about it a little but it was still a vague possibility and not anything to worry about–not anything to worry you about but I knew.  Having that in the back of my mind is likely why that song was on my lips. It was in anticipation of Christmas next year when I knew I’d be far away. 

Stupid move on my part. When I got to the part about being apart and wishing to be with you. . . I lost it and started to cry.

At first, there were just tears as I sang. Then, the words turned to sobs and everyone’s heads popped up. You came and wrapped your arms around me. Everyone thought the evil had crept into my thoughts again. Not this time, for my thoughts, were solely on you, on us, and on the miles that would soon be between us. It was about knowing I had to give you peace that could only come when you were without me and my horrible baggage.

You put your head next to mine and pressed your cheek onto my cheek slick with tears. You said that you loved me and then said, “It’s not Christmas until you cry”.  Perhaps as a reminder of how Christmas also affected you.

So, this morning, as I hurried through the Tucson mall, guess what song came on? The impact was immediate. My eyes were filled with tears and I believe I gasped aloud. But I didn’t stop. No, instead I picked up speed. I was certainly a sight as I wove my way through the Christmas shoppers, walking quickly at first, then breaking into a run, tears flowing down my cheeks.

No one said anything, but I proved an adage. When a woman is crying and running through a crowd, the crowd will get the hell out of the way.

Lord, Lord, it must be Christmas. The proof is not in the lights, in the festive trees with colored balls, in Santa and the little ones on his knees, nor with the Christmas songs filling the air. No, the proof is flowing down my cheeks (again). 

I’ll not say this and mean it to anyone else but when I say this to you it is sincere. Merry Christmas, Mikey. I hope you have someone who will sing Christmas songs to you.  I hope you have joy. As for me, I have my new hiking boots and, maybe, can find some form of joy down the trails without pain in every step I take.