Nineteen Years

Nineteen years

later

and counting,

he still doesn’t

like

the holidays.

Even before, they had lost

their holiness

for him, which was

all he had cared

about over and

against his

late wife and

children’s

objections. They

called him Scrooge.

Now, with grief

pretty much

under control, abated

even, he

hears the

ubiquitous carols,

and doesn’t even

have the energy to

fight against the

secularization of

Christmas. He chooses

not to listen. He

just doesn’t care

anymore.

Instead, he thinks

about how it isn’t

the most wonderful

time of the year along

with

the pressure to be

happy. It feels like

being confronted

by

someone (maybe the

one)

who says,

“Come on. Come on.

Let’s have a little smile

there. Come on. Hey,

it’s Christmas so

cheer up.”

Right.

Perhaps if there

were two things for

him to like

about the holidays,

it’s listening to “Have

Yourself a Merry Little

Christmas,” one of

the saddest songs

ever written.

It’s the only song

that comforts him

in the other-wise sacred

season

and he bets the

lyricist knew loss,

too.

1 thought on “Nineteen Years

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