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Show 67 congregating around the Christmas tree and listening to my dad read the story of the birth of Christ, rotating annually from the depiction in the Bible and the less famous one in the Book of Mormon. Except that my dad read certain sections with what I felt was too much emotion for someone who rarely spoke with any, I had no problem with that ritual. It required nothing on my part. My family had moved the Christmas tree upstairs that year, and arguing the virtues and drawbacks of various Christmas trees in the Allen's parking lot was one tradition I was glad to have missed. This one looks too...greedy; or, Does this one inspire thoughts of Christ? I was not interested in Christmas trees, and anyway could never remember how tall our living room was from the parking lot, or how slim a tree needed to be to fit between the wall and the piano. The one they chose seemed out of place itself-it was disfigured and anorexic, like a sidewalk weed that had struggled to grow from the foundations of the house and was surprised to find itself in the living room. My mom was wearing a red Christmas sweater with tic-tac-toe boxes alternating green Christmas trees and neatly wrapped presents in each box. We'd been talking on the phone once or so per month since I left. For about a month she made me feel guilty for my abrupt departure, but she seemed to mind less the longer I was in Arizona. She said, Don't ever do that again. I said, OK, not knowing for certain if she meant moving or something else. I hugged her and she asked me if I was ready for "another crazy night" at Aunt Angie's. |