CHRISTMAS WOULD BE IN DECEMBER

By

Aaron Burch

Christmas would be in December. This was our novel idea, how everything had worked out. And, what the hell. We would descend on December like elves – like real, honest-to-God, excited fucking elves – and take it over, make it our own. We’d celebrate the hell out of it.

When the kids were born, we’d had points to prove. We didn’t say this to each other, or aloud at all. Saying it aloud wouldn’t have proved anything, would only have suffocated any kind of point. If absolutely necessary, maybe in whispers to the backs of closets, sure no one else could hear or know.

We taught them circles were stars and green was violet. We taught them to spit when meeting people and to say “upside down” instead of “please.” They tied their shoelaces with lashing knots and wore them on the wrong feet. And we celebrated Christmas in June. We were fucking the system, we said, though never aloud.

As the kids grew older, even June became too regular, too conventional. We started anew in January, celebrated Christmas a new month every year. We stopped wrapping presents. One year, we hid the presents out in the yard like Easter eggs. The next year, we glued them all to the ceiling, upside-down-Christmas. The kids woke up, looked at the ceiling. They pointed, said, “please?”

And now this year, we’ve come full circle. It was December’s turn. We fretted. We worried we weren’t proving any point, we weren’t fucking the system. The kids couldn’t wait. Teenagers now, they should have been too cool to care, but they were ecstatic. They’d waited their lives for this.

If you can’t beat ’em, we said. Christmas! we said. Christmas in December! We did it up. We left out cookies and milk, then ate and drink half of everything once the kids were asleep. We tracked in snow boot prints. We decorated, we sang carols, we planned on going to Christmas Eve service.

Christmas morning, we handed out presents, ripped at wrapping paper, kept warm in the pajamas we’d exchanged the night before. We celebrated. Then, everyone bunkered behind their opened presents, we all looked around, at each other. “What now?” the kids asked. “What now?” And we didn’t know. We didn’t know what now, and we didn’t know if we should tell them that or not.