Deck The Halls With Brand New Stories: Ho Ho Holiday Anthology

The Candy Cane

It was December 21st, and Christmas was approaching with the speed and ferocity of a rabid reindeer.

While the rest of my family was gathering for the annual 'Cartwright Family Christmas', I was four days away from spending my third consecutive Christmas alone in Los Angeles.

When I had moved down here three years prior, I never thought I would miss the frigid temperatures and knee-deep snow of rural Minnesota, but it seemed with each year of its absence, more and more of my Holiday spirit washed away.

Whether it was the financial strain that was preventing me from seeing my family, the jealousy of my friends who were able to travel home, or simply just the isolation and loneliness of my empty, minimalistic apartment, I just couldn't find it within me to get excited about the season like I used to.

Not four feet from where I was sitting was a storage closet with three large Rubbermaid bins worth of Christmas decorations, and a suitcase full of kitschy Christmas sweaters that I had collected over the past twenty-some-odd years.

Any previous year, I would have been chomping at the bit to start decorating the moment that Halloween ended, but this year it all just felt like such a fruitless, laborious task. Sure, I could try to force myself to get into the spirit of the season by at least putting up a tree, but to what end?

With my family on the other side of the country, I didn't have anyone to share my Christmas with. I could barely afford to buy my groceries, let alone a decent gift for myself, and I was so deep in a pit of self-loathing from the lack of progress in my writing career that the likelihood of finding any semblance of joy from the holidays seemed slim, at best.

And so, for the first time in my life, I decided to actively forgo Christmas altogether.

I sat in my stark apartment, and stared at my blank computer screen in the hopes that some sort of inspiration would strike so I could at least claim that I was productively pursuing my career, but the well had run dry months ago. What's worse, is the longer I sat there the more I found myself distracted by my homesickness.

Images of our family tree glistening with light, the perfectly hung garland on the bannister, the smells of cinnamon and nutmeg permeating from the kitchen, and the sound of a crackling fire in the hearth. All of it seemed so familiar, yet so distant, like waking from a dream you'll never have again.

No matter how many times I tried to shake the sense of longing from my thoughts, I only came back to find myself staring at that damned blank screen, with its cursor flashing as though it were impatiently tapping its foot, awaiting my validation of its wakefulness.

In a fit of frustration towards my creative stasis, I slammed my laptop shut and tried to clear my mind by heading to the grocery store, but not before throwing on a baseball cap, making sure to pull down the brim to minimize any interactions by eliminating eye contact altogether.

As I slowly made my way down Ventura Boulevard, towards the Ralph's, I couldn't help but marvel at the emptiness of the street. Even on a slow day, you'd be a fool to try to J-walk across all four lanes, but in the moment, the absence of people almost made my surroundings feel post-apocalyptic in nature.

While I momentarily enjoyed the silence as a change of pace from the usual backdrop of persistent horns and douchebags revving their engines, something about the barren surroundings almost felt too relatable to the isolation I was feeling.

I pulled out my phone and stared at the blank screen as I hesitantly debated calling my family, but was quick to reconsider.

I told myself that they were likely busy with all their Christmas preparations, what with sneaking off to various corners of the house to secretly wrap presents for each other, stashing them in the backs of closets and cupboards until Christmas morning.