Eggnog & Evergreen

09 • Photo Album Blues

I wake up thinking, wistfully, perhaps last night was a dream. Maybe I didn't make the spontaneous decision to return home and maybe I didn't accost a reindeer. Maybe that reindeer didn't drive me home in a sleigh.

My mom laid out an old robe on the ottoman at the end of my bed. It's baby blue and fluffy and covered with white snowflakes. I slip from my bed and pull it on over my silk camisole. I'm amazed to find the top drawer of my bureau is still filled with socks.

The kitchen is filled with smells of breakfast. Coffee and cinnamon buns are already sitting on the countertop. I grab a mug from the cabinet and pour myself some coffee.

"Morning, honey!" My mom almost screams coming into the kitchen behind me.

She hugs me, almost sobbing and dangerously near hysterics.

"Hi, mom," I smile back.

"How was your sleep? When did you get in? Must have been the middle of the night!" She says, taking a cinnamon bun from the Christmas plate.

"That's what happens when you send a horse-drawn carriage to collect me," I retort. "Surprised I made it in one piece."

"Oh, we thought you might like that!" My mom squeals with glee.

"Oh yeah, spectacular."

"That's the spirit!" My dad says.

He enters the room, already dressed in his worn jeans and the same wooly sweater he always wears this time of year.

"Morning dad," I say when he releases me from a big bear hug.

"How is it being back? Just like you remember it? Is your room OK?"

"My room's the same mom." I shake my head.

"Oh, I'm so glad you're home, Noelle! You used to love Christmastime here!" My mom coos.

I glance around, taking in the kitchen, the family room beyond it, and the snowy backyard. Great full wreaths hang from every fence post.

"It's surreal," I say between tight lips.

"Well, surreal or not, it's real." My mom pushes a plate towards me. "We have the ornament drive, the secret elf shop, and of course the Pear Tree festival."

Holy Jesus, I can't.

"I'm not exactly in the Christmas mood, mah," I say through a full mouth.

"Not in the Christmas mood, kiddo?" My dad's ears perk up.

"Oh, Chris, you know she's recently heartbroken." My mother's eyes widen.

"Yes, yes." I dad nods. "Preston, right?"

"Probably still upset on account of missing Hawaii," my mom says, in a horrible attempt at a whisper.

"Sitting right here." I sigh, exasperated.

"Honey, a little break-up isn't worth losing out on the holiday! Not when it's your favorite time of year." My dad reminds me.

"Was my favorite," I stress. "Consider me taking a break this year. Off-duty."

"Noelle-" My dad begins.

"Oh, let her have the day at least. I'm sure she'll find her way back. You and I on the other hand," my mom inclines her head to my dad, "we need to get going!"

"Right, Joy," dad answers.

"Going?" I ask, inhaling black coffee. "Where to?"

"The farm of course."

Of course. My aunt and uncle's Christmas farm. Best spot in all of Northern Pennsylvania for trees, wreaths, garland -basically anything evergreen. I don't have a single childhood memory of Christmas that doesn't involve days spent at Trodder's Tree Farm.

I watch my parents leave, bidding them farewell. I scamper back down the hall and into my room. Pulling my phone off the charger, I open to my social media hub. I know I shouldn't hit the search bar and type in Preston_Wells1, but I can't help myself.

I'd say my 20-minute-deep dive ruined my mood -but what mood?

Jayden and Jules hit me up for a proof-of-life selfie. I oblige with a pic in front of my high school graduation photo that's hanging on the wall. I slip into sweatpants, but keep the robe on. It's a robe kind of day.

I return to the cozy family room and burrow into the corner spot on the couch.

Doing my best to avoid admiring the Christmas decorations, I pull a stack of tattered books from the box beneath the coffee table. However, no sooner do my fingers fumble on the spines do I realize they are not books at all -they are albums. They are photo albums.

Oh, to relive the ghosts of Christmases past.

I accidentally (on purpose) let the first album fall open. The first picture I see is a close-up of me, unwrapping my new barbie jeep, circa 1999. I spent the next few hours painstakingly poring over every photo.

"Why am I doing this to myself?" I whisper, smacking the final photo album shut.

The nostalgia is fun, if not fleeting. It hurts when the archives are of more recent years. My mom has postcards and pictures from the trips Preston and I took. Right on the last page is a group-shot of the four of us when my parents came to visit last year. It was taken right out front of Rockefeller Center.

In the photo I'm wearing the scarf I transformed into a pillow on the train last night. Guess it's just another thing I need to throw out now.

I stow the albums away, safely out of sight, and pull up a box of yarn. It's all our crocheting materials. Every Christmas, mom and I used to spend hours by the fire, crocheting scarves and blankets and sometimes pom-pom hats.

One year, we started making ornaments -nothing too fancy, just a crocheted snowflake or bell or star. We donated the lot to the secret elf shop that year. Ever since, mom's been making dozens (if not hundreds) every year for the Barn Benefit ornament drive.

Without even realizing what I'm doing, I start crocheting. This is what my life's become: crocheting alone, during the holidays. Am I 100? And where's the cat?

It goes without saying that I no longer believe in Christmas music. However, if a song were to come to mind, it would be Blue Christmas.

Maybe I should have gone to the stupid tree farm with my parents after all.