Christmas, once again

It was so terribly cold. Snow was falling, and it was almost dark. The lights that lined the streets’ trees and lampposts shone brightly but provided no warmth from the cold. His hands were gloveless, his head barren except for his thinning hair, and his nose was running more than a locomotive’s engine. Snot pooled on his upper lip as he sniffed and trudged along the snow filled sidewalk. Nobody was shoveling today; the workers from the city had the day off for the holiday. They hardly expected anyone to be outside anyways. The windchill was below zero and the news had warned those watching not to be in the cold for more than ten minutes at a time. The freezing weather would make anyone susceptible to frostbite within minutes.

Take shelter, they said. Stay warm, and most importantly, stay inside.

But what if there was no inside? No inviting living rooms, no cozy blankets, no lit fireplace, its crackling sounds putting the observer in a trance and then a deep sleep.

No gloves, no scarves, no warmth whatsoever.

What if all there was was bitterness paired with a head splitting cold that attacked the temples and gave an instant headache? What if there was only snow and a wind so dramatic it felt as if one’s skin was going to be pulled from their body, only for it to ride the breeze down to a warmer climate? A snow so wet and freezing that its whiteness was no longer beautiful, its purity transformed into gray wickedness. A forbidden, disgusting slush that soaks into thin shoes and socks.

What if nobody wanted this? This weather that claims lives and adds sorrow to hearts. Yet no matter how despised, nothing could be done to stop it. There was no way to coerce the sun to return, to shine its rays on the city and its buildings, to bring life back to the bustling streets. For months, all Chicago knows is the northern wind, a wintry blast of temperatures so numbing, one questions, “God, will this ever end?”

It occurs yearly like clockwork. Most don’t mind the cold until a certain point in the year. Christmas wouldn’t be Christmas without Illinois overcast and a 4 PM sunset. It would be unnatural to have Florida heat, for the sun to shine on the lake and melt the thick ice. For palm trees to pop up on Michigan Avenue and for Santa to be in swim trunks. But once the holidays go as quickly as they come, they wish the winter would go with it.

It never does though. January worsens the mind, brings it to the brink of insanity. A seasonal depression so brutal that it can make an atheist religious.

Some pray to heaven and ask the Almighty to let spring come early. To make March wonderful, fruitful, and as green as the dyed St. Patrick’s River.

Some pray to the groundhog, begging it to not see its shadow.

“Please Punxsutawney Phil, have mercy on our souls. Bring us warmth, bring back our happiness and joy. Take all that was and make it brand new. Amen.”

All the moanings, groanings, and complaints avail to nothing. The sun pushes itself even farther away, even when it knows the people are desperate for it. It distances itself as it remembers how they acted last summer. How they were ready for autumn before July even began. How they became irritable in the heat, dripped in sweat, and gave off noxious fumes of stink worse than the street’s garbage puddles. So, it stays hidden, covered by the sky’s blanket of low hanging clouds. It peaks out a few times in the time between February and April, playing a trick, convincing them that their prayers worked. But it never stays. It laughs as disappointment spreads below and the people fall back into a world of gloves and beanies, hand warmers and snow boots. It shows no mercy, not even on December 25th. Though sometimes it does feel a brief bout of guilt. When it gets a glimpse of those stuck outside, sleeping on snowbanks and in tents of ripped cloth, it wishes to send a beam down to those left in the cold. But it doesn’t work like that, and it never will. Those perceived as the lowest rung on the ladder must suffer most because of the ungrateful ones “above them.”

The suffering continues then, endlessly, when the houses are full, the shelters at their capacity.

When all one knows is frost and frigid.

When the world is an oyster, and all that a person can take from it is a plot of grass in a park, or the chilled cement under an overpass.

When December’s decorations, its wreaths and bows are no longer a novelty, but a tragedy. A heart hurting, gut wrenching travesty that floods the brain with childhood memories and fills the eyes with stinging tears.

When Christmas isn’t a time to celebrate, but a time to survive.

The idea of presents, gift swapping, secret Santa, and a white elephant are scoffed at then, as he hasn’t eaten in three days, and the last meal he had was a kind woman’s leftovers.

“I’m so sorry, I don’t have any cash, and I don’t have much time. But I didn’t bite any of this. I promise. It should still be warm.”

He thanked her kindly and grinned politely. It was her other half of a chicken parmesan sandwich and a handful of soggy French fries, all from the Italian restaurant he sat outside of that Friday. There had been an office party inside. He saw a gaggle of men in expensive buttoned shirts and sleek ties, all carrying tiny, gift-wrapped boxes, as well as an occasional bag with festive tissue paper sticking out. The women came a few moments later, dressed in business casual, with most wearing flats. He saw an occasional heel. One had red bottoms instead of the common black.

‘She must be the boss,’ he thought to himself when he saw what was on her feet. His assumption was mostly confirmed when he noticed her stunning fur coat, presumably mink, and presumably more expensive than anything he ever owned. She had long, wavy black hair which shined beautifully, and her nails were a glossy crimson. She was wearing sunglasses for some reason, though it was night, and he could see her watch poking out from under her sleeve. It was dainty, but not flimsy. It shone pure silver, and it was embellished with more diamonds than he could count.

A few hours later, her employee had given him his only meal for the next few days.

He was grateful for her kindness, but now, after three days of nothingness, he walked weakly, emptily. Blasted by the cold wind tunneling in between the skyscrapers, all he could do was think about everything that was, everything that is, everything that will be.

There is no amount of regret that can change the past, his friend told him some years ago. But all he could do was regret, ponder, wonder, think about all that he had, all that he lost. All whom he lost.

He thought of the Christmas song that used to be his favorite, before it became all too personal.

Bells will be ringin’ the sad, sad news

Oh, what a Christmas to have the blues

My baby’s gone, I have no friends

He hummed it, tried to convince himself it was more comforting than harming. He heard the tune in his head, its melancholy chorus reverberating through his skull. His eyes became wet, glossy with musical memories trying to escape from his brain and down his cheeks.

There was a time when it was just a song, not a relatable ballad that seemed to be written about his very life. When Cherry was alive, it had no significance. He had no emotional ties to the lyrics. Everything was as sweet as her name. They roamed, they created, they bickered but made love afterwards. They would sort it out under the covers, on top of them, without them, in the shower and on the counter. In the kitchen, the bathroom, the bedroom, and once on the balcony of a hotel. He bought her flowers the next day, every time, to show her his appreciation, his admiration. He loved her hard, with a fervor greater than he ever felt before. He loved her deeply, quickly, and only for a moment.

When the day had come and the news had broken, he prayed to whatever power at be that the Earth would open beneath his feet and swallow him whole. He hoped to go out like the children of Israel in the Old Testament. Consumed by the ground beneath him, with barely a whisper or notice from the world around him. He wanted to be packed in the dirt, swallowed by the hard crust, and eaten by the worms tunneling around his lifeless body. He wanted to decompose, bring life to the plants blooming above his resting place. Fill the ground with the sustenance she filled him with. She breathed life into him without trying. She provided a purpose, a pleasure, a desire. He couldn’t imagine a day without her, let alone a year, a decade, a life.

It always came back to her. No matter how many meals he missed. No matter how many people avoided eye contact with him when they passed him on the street. No matter how much his humanity was stripped from him by their assuming thoughts that spilled out of their brains, through their ears, and into his lap. It always came back to Cherry. She was his love, his life. His reason.

So, all these years later, he asked himself, ‘Why am I still going? What is the point of living a life when life itself feels lifeless?’

He tried to create a world in his head where she was still there. Nothing bad happened. Everything went on as it always did. But he knew a day would come where one of them would have to be alone. Death was one of life’s only consistent qualities.

If even the most perfect reality still resulted in heartache, can a life of contentment be found?

He wasn’t sure, he had no answer. The only thing he was sure of was that he was cold. He was being eaten alive by snowy night and its unforgiving heaviness. He was being mocked by each storefront he passed, their windows showing photos of smiling families. Whole and without hurt, their faces permanently full of joy. Perfect, straight teeth, coats full of down, fur lined gloves, and knit hats with large puffs on their tops.

He wanted to find them and spit in their faces. Ask them how they could be so happy when so many around them weren’t. How they were so easily ignorant to the suffering that grew, the pain that festered. He wanted them to feel what he felt in that very moment. Their hands so cold they become stiff and unusable. Their ears burning from the Christmas tundra, their chests warm with a vengeful lust. A sorrow so deep it felt palpable. But even after trying to rip it out, peeling at the skin and tearing at their abdomens, it would remain. No healing salve, balm, or liquid could ever draw it out.

His thoughts weren’t ones of jealousy though. He didn’t want to switch places with them, to somehow gain everything they had while they lost it all in return. He simply wanted them to have what he had. That never-ending feeling. A loss all-consuming.

But those thoughts of anger, of loathing, only fuel a person so much.

After glaring through the store’s glass for an unknown number of minutes, he became tired from the long day. He had been walking all afternoon with a stomach full of a growing abhorrence for the world around him. The effort, to hate what and who was around him, was draining. He wanted that to change, to find the love he was stripped of. To have Cherry with him, not on the side of the road, but back in their apartment. Back in the warmth of his arms, his hands on her waist, his lips on her neck. He wanted to pick her up, twirl her around, shout in glee and have her giggle fill his ears. He wanted the past to melt with the present, for the two to become one, for moments to be erased and new ones to be forged. But want, no matter how strong, no matter how aching and emotion-filled, cannot bring back the dead.

All that a person can do then is continue. Or at least try to, even when something as scary as death feels like an option. But whenever that idea formed in his head, when the calm, inviting sensation of pure nothingness called out to him, he banished it immediately. It had no place in his consciousness.

The idea had of course occurred to him several times over the years. He dreamt monthly of meeting Cherry again. He knew how that could happen, supposedly. But since it wasn’t certain, since he didn’t have any faith in the unknown, he didn’t think it was reasonable. If he did pass on and there was no smiling face waiting to welcome him into eternity, what would he do? Without a clear answer, he wouldn’t let himself make that decision.

Instead, he walked. He walked past the restaurants he and Cherry often visited when she had been hand-in-hand with him. The poké restaurant in Uptown they ate at after going to the art museum. The pizza place they visited frequently after baseball games on the Southside. The lakefront where he planned to propose to her, a moment he desired greatly but was never granted. He trekked along even in the harshest conditions, and on that Christmas night he walked to Maggie Daley Park.

He saw the ice-skating ribbon they had tried to conquer but failed. Their balance had been terrible. They looked like newborns taking their first steps. She held his hand the entire time. When he fell, she fell, and vice versa. They laughed the pain away, and by the time they finished, they didn’t care that they were sore and bruised. The memory formed a smile on his weather-beaten face.

He’d never experience that again and neither would she.

He began to feel lightheaded from the agonizing thoughts. The memories that comfort, remind him of the love he had and still has for her. But those same recollections gnaw at his brain and squeeze his heart with a cold, iron grip. They hurt him worse than the winter.

He found a bench to rest on, to calm his swimming head. He sat for a moment with his hands folded on his lap. With closed eyes he pictured her clearly, perfectly. No amount of time could ever make him forget her face.

Quietly, he sang to himself.

“Please come home for Christmas, please come home for Christmas If not for Christmas, by New Year’s night.”