The Sparkle
One November night, as bleak as it is dreary, as crisp as it is calm,
I’m about to go inside my house when I notice the neighbours have put a
Christmas tree in their living-room window. No one can hear me, but I complain
anyway. “Already?” Artificial trees with four hundred lights, on sale at
Costco in July. Dollarama shelves filled with Yuletide trinkets after
Hallowe’en. “Jingle Bells” blaring from supermarket loudspeakers the morning
after Remembrance Day. I want to holler, “It’s too soon!”
Hand still on the doorknob, I stare unblinking at the
sparkle from the tree’s white lights. One minute, I imagine a swarm of
fireflies, the next, a mini Milky Way of reflections in the pane. The more I
stare, the more I’m captivated. As if hypnotised, I surrender to a memory.
There, in the sparkle, I recognize a time long ago when I assumed Christmas came
courtesy of Santa’s gang. The memory begins after midnight Mass at the Basilica.
We, the children, are scurrying upstairs to bed, “Gloria in excelsis Deo” still
ringing in our ears, sugar-plum fairies dancing jigs in our heads.
Meanwhile, our parents are downstairs preparing for a day
like no other.
~~~
Take out the gifts hidden in the attic: an Easy Bake oven,
Spirograph, Barbie doll, skates, toboggan, and more. Snack on the milk and dark
fruit cake meant for Santa. Stuff the stockings: a set of jacks, marbles, yoyo,
an orange, homemade fudge, and Bull’s Eyes candies. Spare the coal. Pray for a
generous ration of sleep before the youngsters wake up.
Rise at dawn to a brouhaha downstairs. Blame the elves for
the disappointments. Serve bacon and eggs, toast, and Tang. Suffer the noise
while they squabble over their new toys. Savour the peace while they’re glued
to a black and white TV playing “Lassie Come Home.” Peel a mound of vegetables,
stuff the bird, whip cream for trifle, set the table for a feast.
Break out the rum when the relatives arrive. Hide the
mistletoe. Tune the radio to a steady par-rum-pum-pum-pum of comfort and joy, a
jolly fa-la-la of troubles out of sight. Bribe the children with a box of Pot
of Gold for later if they’d only stop running around.
Gulp down in minutes a meal that took a half day to
prepare. Wish guests a merry goodnight and a cup of kindness for the new year. Scrub
pots and pans, wash and dry dishes, sweep floor—tree needles galore. Climb into
bed, at long last. Take a deep breath and rejoice. Whisper, “Thanks be to God
the holiday comes only once a year.”
~~~
A numbness in my fingers, a shiver in my spine, goosebumps on my
arms—it’s time to go inside. I turn away from the neighbours’ window, from the sparkle
of a Christmas just like the ones I used to love.
No one can hear me, but I say it anyway. “Tomorrow, I’ll put
up my own lights.”