AS I once wrote in one opening line long ago, “At least for this generation onward, the advent of Decembers and Christmases, for that matter, will always be like no other.” Yes, no need to have it officially declared, indeed, we all celebrate Christmas differently, if not on a year-by-year, or even decades apart.
Sometimes, and sadly too, our Christmases and Decembers become indelibly marked by either an empty seat at our Christmas table or a missing voice during our carols in the car to church. No matter, at this one particular time, however, as Neil Young would say, “Don’t let it bring you down.” So, in fond remembrance of those whom I love who have gone ahead, I am not going there this Christmas. I refuse to let the dark side take me, at least for a while.
However, try as I could, dark clouds always have their determined way of coming back. As a boomer of the fifties, perhaps along with that of other much-younger generations, including those directly prior to the present, I concede that all our childhood memories of Christmas pale miserably when compared to that of the 2020 pandemic version.
The only other comparable measure I could get, I couldn’t cull from our many generations. Instead, the one that fits like they’re from the same pair of socks is the generation of the so-called ‘silent ones’, my dad’s.
Sometime after his passing, a contemporary of his, in a conversation, had likened the Christmastime of the Covid years to those of their fearful years of World War Two. They were but children then, and imagining what those times were like through their eyes, I thought that was so unfair for the innocents to witness the season that way.
Then, like the proverbial snowball rolling slowly downhill, the two dark periods of war and Covid, in the back of my mind, merged and morphed into one with our present-day: the haunting images of Gazan children and their piercing blank stares. As if that were not enough, now all three synced together with Simon & Garfunkel’s “Silent Night”, thus providing me with a most disturbing soundtrack that played like a vengeful spirit in the background.
Giving up, I am suddenly surprised and still. Though uneasy but contented, I have a feeling my loved ones would have wanted it this way, I thought. Inasmuch as I initially intended to have my go at putting all the sad times behind me, it’s just not so.
Like gifts, the universe tells me, wrap it all up… the past, the near past, and the present. The good times all equally slide smoothly with their unpleasant counterparts. Like the rest of all our memories, we flow as one with this river, and Decembers and Christmases or not, we have no choice in its goings.
