Day 13: And they pondered these things

“So, I know we have talked, but how are you really doing?” Scott asked.

“You know, work is going well. I’m due for another promotion soon, so that will be nice. And Maggie…well you’ve seen her. She’s getting so big! They grow up so…” Michael stopped himself.

He is doing it again. It all sounds good. It really does. The problem is he does not believe any of it.

For whatever reason, on this night, he stopped himself. Maybe it is because it is Christmas Eve. Maybe it is because he trusts Scott. Perhaps, it is because you can only lie to yourself so many times.

“Truth is, Scott, I’m not doing real well. I mean, I should be doing well. Work is going good, and I know a lot of people here in Atlanta. Maggie is doing well in school, but I don’t know. I feel very alone, and I used to be okay with it….” Michael paused.

“I don’t think I have ever fully recovered from when Annie walked out on us,” Michael said softly, the tone of his voice saying more than the words itself.

“Well, I don’t know if that is something you just recover from. I mean, I’m early in this process, but I don’t know…” Scott began to weep.

The year had been particularly hard for Scott. He was pastoring a large church in North Carolina. The church was growing like crazy. He even had a book deal on the table. They were hoping for a December release.

In June it all changed.

Scott had an affair with another man, and Becky found out. She packed their two kids up and left.

“I never want to see you again. You are a failure. I can’t believe I married such a pervert! As long as I have anything to do with it, you will never have a role in the kid’s life again,” Scott replayed this final scene with his ex-wife over and over again. Always wishing that somehow the scene would change this time, but it never did.

About two weeks after Becky left, the church fired him as the pastor. They added that he was no longer allowed to ever step foot in the church building again.

“You are the kind of person that we preach against! This church cannot afford to have any queers walking around here! You are such a disgrace. Go get your life together,” Scott remembered one of the elders saying to him before he left.

So, here they are. Two old friends spending Christmas Eve at a dive bar. One who appears to have it all together. Another who does not. Neither of them happy, but each trying to make sense of their lives.

“Michael, it’s just that life is harder than we give it credit for sometimes. There isn’t a day that goes by where I don’t wish I could take it all back…The thing is that I can’t. All people care about is what happened…I don’t doubt that if you could trade all of what you have now to get Annie back, you would do it in a second,” Scott said with tears rolling down his face.

“I guess I just would like to have had a conversation, you know? I mean, I thought we loved each other. How can someone just walk out on love? I trusted her, Scott. I really trusted her, and she made me look like a fool. Maybe it would not have been so bad if it was just me but there’s Maggie to think about, too.

Just last week she was asking about her mom. I never know what to say. I try to stay as vague as possible. What kind of five year old is ready to handle the fact that her mom walked out on her?” Michael asked.

So there in a small bar, Michael and Scott were no longer alone. They were surrounded by each other’s questions.

“Michael, I want to tell you the answer is to just not trust people. In fact, I wish that were the right answer. The more I try to run away, the more it seems like we really need people. As if our universe hinged on loving and being loved by others,” Scott said.

“I know this day is a big deal for you, Scott. I mean, it used to be. Here we are on Christmas Eve sitting at a dive bar, crying about our problems,” Michael said with a forced laugh.

“Yea, I dunno, Michael. Maybe I’m starting to wonder about it all. I have my doubts that if Jesus were here, we would find him in the church on Christmas Eve. For one, I don’t think he’d be invited.

I guess I picture Jesus walking away from the closed doors and throwing his own birthday party here. On his way to the party, he rounds up everyone he can find on the street. You know, the ones that didn’t seem fit for church. The ones who have been abandoned and who have abandoned other people.

We’d sing Christmas carols, drink eggnog, and for once, it wouldn’t matter what kind of person you were because we would realize we are all in the same boat.”

So, I guess you could say Michael and Scott pondered these things in their hearts that night.

Some have said that Scott preached his best sermon that night in the tiny little bar in Atlanta. He did not feel like much of a preacher any more, and Michael did not feel much like a successful businessman, either.

Perhaps that is what made the night so beautiful.

 

Day 12: Strong Tears

You do not become eighty-eight years old without having some life experiences under your belt. Estelle and Tom’s birthdays were a day apart, June 5^th and 6^th to be exact. They have seen some things. It takes a certain kind of person to move to New York City when you are eighty-five years old. A little bit of stubbornness, a little bit of idealism, and a hell of a lot of drive.

The two met when they were working at a diner in Alabama at about the age of seventeen. It was the stereotypical diner. The kind you see in the framed pictures at Steak ‘N’ Shake or one of those corporate America caricature establishments that are popping up all over the place now.

There is no better illustration of the couple than on one dark rainy day when they were both working at the diner. It was the kind of rain that makes a person wonder if they have become the second coming of Noah, scrapping around to find some wood to build an ark yourself just in case it floods again.

An African-American gentleman ran into the restaurant to escape the elements.

“Good afternoon, sir. It is mighty fierce out there, huh?” Estelle greeted the man at the counter.

“Yes, ma’am, I reckon I about lost my hat three times already today,” the gentleman said.

“Well, at least you still have it…It is a fine hat…what are we having today?” she asked.

“Well, thank you! I’d just like a cup of soup…Whatever your soup is today, I’ll just have that,” the man said.

“Sure thing, I’ll have that right up for you…I’m guessing you would like some crackers on the side?”

“Please,” the gentleman said with a smile.

As Estelle placed the bowl of soup in front of him, a man came yelling from the back.

“Excuse me, sir….We don’t serve no niggers here! You best get on your way before I have to make you leave myself,” the diner’s owner had come storming in.

“Well, it seems to me that this fine gentleman is a paying customer just like anyone else is. If we could just calm…”

Estelle was interrupted mid-sentence.

“Well, a nigger’s money is no good here. I think I know how to run my own restaurant. You know the rules here, Estelle. No niggers allowed…Besides, it’s the law.” the owner blurted out.

The African-American gentleman, whose name they would later find out was Charlie, started to grab his coat without making much of a seen. While this would seem shocking to some, it was Charlie’s life. Like most African-Americans during this era, particularly in the South, he was used to getting chased out of places.

“Now Bob, I don’t think we need to be raising our voices like that. You know Estelle is one of the best workers you got and this gentleman ain’t causing nobody no harm. He has just as much a right to eat here as anyone else,” Tom said.

One thing you need to know about Tom is that he never causes trouble. He really tries to avoid conflict, almost to a fault. However, any time he feels someone is being disrespected he almost always sticks up for them.

“Well, if you two don’t like the way this diner is run. You can leave with the nigger, too,” the owner said sternly.

No sooner were the words uttered, than Estelle grabbed a big container to put a heap of soup into it. She gave the container to Charlie, Tom grabbed their coats, and the trio headed for the door.

“Just because it is the law, doesn’t make it right. Some day maybe you will know what it’s like to be treated like less than a human. Have fun tryin’ to run this place by yourself,” Estelle yelled on their way out.

The owner tried to catch them, but the three of them ran faster than he was able to keep up with.

After they had run as far as was humanly possible, they stopped.

“Sir, we are real sorry about that. Some people just don’t get it. What’s your name?” Tom asked.

“My name is Charlie. I’m real appreciative of you guys sticking up for me like you did. I know you didn’t have to. Sometimes a guy gets tired of sticking up for himself, I guess,” Charlie said.

“Well Charlie, I’m Tom and this is my girl, Estelle,” Tom said pointing to his beautiful girlfriend.

“Pleasure to meet you, Charlie,” Estelle said as she stuck out her hand.

“Say Charlie, you seem like a good guy. Estelle and I have been talking about getting hitched for a while now. I suppose today is as good of a day as any since we have some free time. I could really use a best man. Charlie, I’m sure you are a busy man, but would you mind doing me the honor of being my best man?” Tom asked as if it was the most important question in the world, because, well, at that moment it was.

“Well, I would love to, but I don’t have a fancy suit or anything. I…” Charlie was interrupted.

“Oh, no need to worry about that. We are just going to the courthouse. Neither of us owns any fancy clothes either,” Tom said.

So there in the midst of the pouring rain in a small town in Alabama, a man who was told he was not good enough to be served soup at a crummy diner became a best man in a wedding. It was a nice wedding, as nice as a courthouse wedding can be, that is.

It was not fancy, but a fancy wedding did not seem to suit Estelle and Tom anyway. They try to be regular people, even though there is hardly a more unique couple on the planet. After over sixty years of marriage, I suppose the wedding did the trick just fine.

For the reception, the three of them sat on the tailgate of Tom’s truck eating the soup that Estelle had stolen from the diner. There have probably been much bigger receptions, but it is doubtful that any of them possessed the amount of love that filled the back of Tom’s truck that afternoon.

I say all this because a person could get the wrong idea. Right now, you glance into a small New York City apartment and see two eighty-eight year olds crying their eyes out, because their children seem to have outgrown them.

You might jump to the conclusion that these were two old, weak, and fragile people. Please understand that nothing about the Douglas couple is weak. In fact, even their tears are strong.

Yes, even their tears are strong tears.

 

Day 11: Skylines and Slums

The thought of leaving has crossed Sophie’s mind, albeit briefly. She is a fourth generation Detroit native, making Grant a fifth generation native. Detroit is more than a city, it is a family member. Despite the loyalty rarely being returned, Sophie is a very loyal person.

People often talk about having the courage to pack your bags and move to a new city. The truth is sometimes it takes more courage to stay in the same place and know that somewhere else will not make all your problems disappear.

If there is any truth to the sort of idea that God gives extra doses of things to certain people, there is little doubt that Sophie was given an extra dose of courage. Most of the time, Sophie lives in fear. It seems ironic that she would  possess any courage at all.

It is hard for anyone to grasp that courageous people are not the brave ones. Far from it. Courage finds people when they are scared. Brave people seem to have no use for courage, because they know they can do things on their own.

I have lost Greg. I have lost my friends…Detroit is dying. What about Grant? God knows what I would do without him. I am barely hanging on, there is not much left to lose.

There hardly is anything that she is not scared about. The idea of being a widow and a single mother had scared her. Actually, it still does. She was scared of having no community. Scared of what Detroit was becoming. Scared that somehow she could lose Grant.

Scared. Scared. Scared.

Sophie lives a life that requires much courage which is what makes her so courageous. Courageous people are not those who possess no fear, but those who go on with life in spite of it.

In fact, few, if any, courageous people would tell you they were courageous. They almost always appear terrified at first glance. That is probably because they are.

No one is certain, but it could be that she loves Detroit so much because cities rarely die. They go through highs and lows, but they survive each point to see the other come around. She needed to love something that could not die because everything else seems to have already passed on.

Like a boxer standing in the middle of a prize-fight, Sophie stood in the ring with Grant hanging on for the ride. With each blow, they kept punching back even if they only hit air because that is precisely what fighters do; they fight back.

 

Day 10: And she looks at me with those eyes

It is December 15^th and no hint of Christmas decorations. No lights. No Christmas tree. No ugly inflatable characters in the front yard.

Nothing.

Truth is, if it was up to Debra and Charles it would probably stay that way. They do not have the energy to go through the process this year. There is something about being a parent that allows you to find energy from other places. Perhaps, you use the excess energy of your kids or there is a secret compartment inside the soul that only parents can access.

No one really knows where it comes from, but few deny that it exists.

Abigail does not talk much, but her eyes say more than most people’s words. Every morning for the past three weeks, she comes out to the living room and looks at the same spot. It is the spot where the Christmas tree always goes.

She never complains that it is not up yet. Her eyes tell of longing more than anything else. Each morning she hopes that the Christmas tree will have magically appeared, but it doesn’t.

She still holds onto the hope that one day it will be up. That’s the thing with kids, hoping comes easier to them than most. All they know how to do is hope.

While Debra and Charles do not notice things as much as they used to, they notice Abigail’s eyes every morning. Whatever strand of apathy they have gravitated towards, it is her eyes that keep them from being fully there.

“Did you call Karen?” Charles asks.

“Yes, she is going to come over around seven tonight. Do you think that will give us enough time?” Debra replies.

“Yeah, I think most of the tree places stay open until around 9,” Charles says.

And so, there is a thought that the morning of December 16^th will be different. Though they don’t have the energy and do not even think it matters any more, Abigail’s eyes have encouraged them to find some strand of hope.

Today, the hope means that they have called a baby sitter to watch the kids while they go find a Christmas tree. It is a small hope, but any hope is a picture that your heart is not quite dead yet.

It is hope for the ordinary which perhaps is the truest hope of all.

 

Day 9: Hello, I’m Michael Hughes

“Man, your Vikings are something fierce. I can’t believe they pulled it out again….Yes, it was a great game. I bet you were about to pass out during that last quarter…I know, unreal…Yes, your right. Still a lot of football left to be played…So you did get the proposal? Excellent…Sure…should we switch to that new Italian place?…Yea, it just isn’t the same with the new owners…Noon on Thursday?…Excellent, I can’t wait to discuss everything with you,” Michael said before hanging up the phone.

He had developed a strategy early on in his career that had seemed to work quite well. When talking to male clients, especially those older than him, engage in small talk about sports.

You find their favorite team and bring up their last game in every conversation. As things progress, you play golf with them. Never play better than the competition. Always compliment them on how they are an excellent golfer, even if they do not know one end of the golf club from the other.

With women clients, it was usually best to engage in flattery. Guess their age; usually guess about ten years below what you actually think. Compliment them on their outfit. Bring up a scene from The Notebook or the latest Matthew Mcconaughey movie.

The strategy was not without its flaws, but it works more times than not. It is all part of the Michael Hughes that he has created. It is not so much that he created this character as much as he does not really know who the real Michael Hughes is in the first place.

This caricature Michael Hughes seems as good as any other.

Plus, it is good for business.

After deleting four messages, Michael heard a familiar voice.

“Michael, it’s Scott…You must have your phone off…Listen, my flight gets in around 7:00 tonight. I can’t wait to hang out with you and Maggie. Gosh, how old is she now? She must be getting so big. Anyways, I know you are busy taking over the world, but just text or call me so I know you got this. See ya tonight, man.”

Scott is one of the only people on the planet that Michael allows in, even a little bit. They met freshman year in Algebra 1. Michael was good at math and Scott was good at sports.

Michael would help Scott with Algebra homework, and Scott would give Michael some pointers on his jump shot. It was a good trade-off

Scott lived in North Carolina, but is coming into town to spend the holidays with Michael. It is the only thing Michael is even remotely looking forward to in his life. He knows the year has been especially rough for Scott.

Perhaps, we will find common ground. I only need to make it a few more hours…God, I sound so pathetic…Maybe I…

“Mr. Hughes, your ten o’clock is here. Should I send him in?” Michael’s secretary phoned in.

Michael frantically began trying to put himself together.

Fix your tie…I hope it isn’t crooked…Oh, my hair! Did I comb my hair today? I think I did…Maybe that was yesterday…Where are my notes?…Oh, that’s okay I can wing it. I’m good. I’m real good….But…I’m such a mess. Ah, I’ll just get through this mee….

“Yes, go ahead and send him in,” Michael said as he cleared his throat.

 

Day 8: Please Come

“Yes, mom, I think this is the one,” Tom said with confidence.

They both stared at the Douglas fir in all its glory, reveling in the irony that the tree shared their last name. It stood about seven feet from the ground with nice thick branches, each one screaming out for ornaments to adorn it. They found a gentleman to tell him that they found the one so it could be delivered to their apartment in Brooklyn.

“Pop, I think you picked a nice one. It will make for a real nice Christmas. You know, maybe the kids will even stop by this year.”

It had been seven years since any of the kids had spent a holiday with their mother and father. Each year they say they will come and visit, but something seems to come up. Something always comes up.

“That would be nice, mom. That would be real nice.”

Silence fills the cab ride home.

“Mom, I’m sure they have good reasons. I mean, they have families now of their own. They are busy…I’m sure busy doing good things. Jeff with his business, Elise with the kids, Doug with his writing, Anna with her new job, and Luke with, well, God knows he has seven different things he’s juggling.”

Silence.

“Mom, I mean, I am sure they care….We’re doing fine, you and me…They do care, right? Please tell me they care about us, Mom. Please tell me they care!”

There on 57^th street in the back seat of a cab an 85-year-old man begins to weep. The tears are not the kind of tears you have when you skin your knee. It’s the kind of tears that comes from the depths of your soul. The kind that beg the question, why is this world so broken?

Not exactly sure where the tears are coming from, but they have arrived, and Tom does not have the energy to send them home.  Estelle tries to console him, but she begins to break down herself.

Their apartment appears out the cab window. Startled, they give the cab driver money, doing their best to avoid eye contact with him.

Estelle puts her arm in Tom’s, the tears continuing to fall. They shuffle towards their apartment door as fast as they can, which is not nearly as fast as it used to be.

On the walk towards their apartment they hear singing. There in the midst of the typical cold, New York December day are carolers.

Suddenly, song lyrics fill both the air and their tears, somehow giving words to their tears.

O come, O come, Emmanuel

And ransom captive Israel

That mourns in lonely exile here

Until the Son of God appear

Rejoice! Rejoice! Emmanuel

Shall come to thee, O Israel

 

Day 7: It’s hard being baby Jesus

“…And mom  it’s going to be so great. This year I think I am going to try out to be Joseph.  I mean, it was great being a wise man and all, but wise men don’t get to talk. Joseph talks, at least a little bit. Mary talks a lot, but I don’t think they would let me be Mary. Mom, you don’t think I could be Mary do you? Mom, are you listening?”

Grant started the countdown to Christmas every year around June. He had always loved the holidays. Last year, he was in the Christmas pageant at a church they had just started going to, and he had absolutely loved it. They still were going to the same church every few weeks and Grant had been insisting that he be allowed to participate in this year’s Christmas pageant.

“Yes, honey, I am listening. No, I don’t think that they will let you try out for Mary. I think yo…”

Sophie was interrupted by Grant.

“Yea, I knew it! Hey wait, what about baby Jesus?…Wait, that won’t work. Baby Jesus doesn’t talk. That’s the problem with baby Jesus; he doesn’t talk. Plus, I don’t think that I can fit in that little box thing that they put on stage for him.” Grant said.

“Yes, Grant, I think you have the right idea. I do think you would make a splendid Joseph, though. We should start practicing,” Sophie said.

They had almost reached home on their usual walk. Every weekday, Sophie would finish her shift at the grocery store and go up about eight blocks to pick up Grant from the Boys and Girls Club.

“Mom, what’s splendid mean? Isn’t that what you put in your coffee in the morning? “ Grant asked.

“No, honey, that is Splenda. Splendid means great, excellent, good; you know…It just means that you would make a great Joseph, that’s all.”

“Oh, okay. That good…Hey wait, you’re a girl…Why don’t you try out for Mary? You could be Mary!!!” Grand said enthusiastically.

“Honey, you probably don’t understand this now, but churches generally frown on mother and sons marrying.”

“Oh mom, it’s just pretend! You are not really going to be Mary, just pretend Mary. Just like when I pretend to build a fort, have laser beams come out of my fingers, or have a pet penguin. I am just pretending to be baby Jesus. Well, not him because he doesn’t talk, but I’m going to pretend to be Joseph. You can totally pretend to be Mary!” Grant exclaimed.

“Well, I appreciate the support, but I think I would do better at watching you make a good Joseph.”

“C’mon, just think about it mom. Tell me you will think about it,” Grant pleaded.

“Okay, Grant, I will think about it. That doesn’t mean I will do it though.”

“I know, it means you will think about it. Maybe you should think about it with a costume on. Where can we get a Mary costume for you ?

 

Day 6: Great Expectations

Miles Davis played softly on the record player, as Debra and Charles drank coffee while reading the New York Times. They were allowing themselves a rare moment of rest. Abigail was invited over to a friend’s house for a Christmas party and Emily had just been put down for a nap. It was their first Saturday morning they had had together in a long time.

“Remember, when we were dating, hun?” Debra looked deeply into her husbands eyes.

“Yeah…It seems like so long ago, huh?” Charles said quizzically.

“Yeah, it does. I just remember…I remember we would stay up all night. We were always talking about all that was wrong with the world. I remember  talking about how we were going to change the world. I know we really believed it, too,” Debra said as she ran her finger along the rim of her cup.

Charles stared out the window, thinking back to what seemed like thousands of hours of conversations that they had.

Nelson Mandela. Martin Luther King, Jr. Rosa Parks. William Wilberforce. Muhammad Ali. Gandhi.

They had talked about them all, hoping that they could follow in their foot steps one day.

They just knew they would.

“It’s just that changing the world has turned into peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, PTA meetings, dirty diapers, kid’s soccer games, mowing the lawn, and reading bed time stories,” Debra continued after a brief pause.

“Changing the world never seemed so ordinary, huh? Anymore, I don’t know if we are changing the world or it’s changing us,” Charles said solemnly.

Their marriage was feeling the weight of failing to live up to either of their expectations. It was not that they fought a lot. Fighting would at least show some passion. They had turned into recovering idealists, grasping towards apathy.

What happens to a marriage when it fails to live up to your expectations? The Bensons were searching for the answer to that question and failing to reach any conclusions.

The two had met in Washington, D.C.. Debra had just graduated from law school and Charles was running a non-profit that he had started. They happened to be sitting at the same table for a fundraising dinner. After hitting it off at the dinner, Charles asked Debra out for a drink. They ended up talking until 4 a.m.

It is rare to find one person passionate about anything, much less two people who are equally passionate about the same things.

“You remember our friends used to call us the President and First Lady? You would get so mad. ‘Why does the man always have to be the President?’ They were so scared you were going to attack all of them at once,” Charles said with a chuckle.

Within a year of meeting, they were married. They hit the ground running.

They had talked numerous times about the absorbent amount of children in the world that were orphaned. Talking had led to action after they met Abigail at a local orphanage. Instantly, they fell in love with her.

She did not talk much, but her big brown eyes screamed to them that she wasn’t just a number. After the application process went through,  she became a daughter again.

About four years later, Debra found out she was pregnant. After Emily was born, time had become scarce.

Debra  only practiced law part-time, focusing instead on raising the girls. Charles put the non-profit on hold and got a job at a bank to ensure that there was a steady income coming in for the family.

“I found this in the desk drawer this morning,” Debra pulled out a piece of paper . At the top of the page,  the words “THINGS TO DO BEFORE WE DIE” was written in permanent marker. They had made the list on their honeymoon in Europe.

They looked intently at the paper for what seemed like hours. It seemed as though the paper was peering back, wondering where the people who had written these words years ago had gone.

 

Day 5: Death and All His Friends

The routine has been the same for the past two months. Make a pot of coffee. Grab The Wall Street Journal. Read through the important stuff. Get into the car and…sit. Sit and daydream. It usually lasts for about thirty minutes.

Michael would pull out the GPS and type in a random city. If he left now, he could be in Washington D.C. by dinner time. He would stare at the computer system until it felt like a 3-D image. He wanted to leave so bad.

Where’s my suitcase? No, not the large one. The medium-sized one. I’ll throw some stuff in there and put it in the car. Yes, the one with the brown stripes. I’ll pick up Maggie early from school, and we’ll leave all this behind. This life. We will leave this life behind and start a new one. A better story and I’ll be a better character… I will, I promise myself I will. God knows, Maggie needs me to be.

And this dances around Michael’s head every morning, at least for the past three months it has.  Just Michael, his car, and the GPS system all having a conversation. Each one talking over the other so that there was never a full sentence understood.

What are you doing? You are successful. I am Michael Hughes. I am the youngest person to become a Vice-President at Brand New. I am an achiever. You are so fake. Achievers don’t quit. What about that promotion? Yes, I’m close to another promotion. That will lead to a higher salary. A higher salary and more power. Perhaps, I will finally be happy. Yes, I will be happy. I am happy. I am happy. I need to believe I am happy! Okay, take a deep breath. Michael, snap out of this! Okay, whew, glad that is over.

All of this leading to the crescendo where the car would start and somehow end at his parking space at work each day, only to play an encore performance the next morning.

He had never really recovered from four years ago.  His parents had left him when he was two. He ended up on the doorsteps of an orphanage. This would be the first of eight different places, until he was finally old enough to leave for college at eighteen. He never trusted anyone fully.

Always skeptical. Always guarded.

Late one night well into his senior year of college, he had decided to go to a local coffee shop in Boston to finish up a business plan. It was the final project for his entrepreneurship class. As he was typing up the executive summary, he noticed a girl sitting at a table diagonal to him reading War and Peace.

After two hours, he finally mustered up the courage to go talk to her.

“I really love how Dickens brings his characters to life,” Michael said to her.

“Oh, yeah?” the young woman said with a confused look on her face.

“Yeah, I mean, I’m sure you have experienced that, right? How far are you into the novel? I know sometimes it takes a while to really get a feel for it,” Michael said confidently.

“Well, I left all of my Dickens’ works at home. However, I’m about 220 pages into this Tolstoy  novel, but I have read it four times before.  But, I’m sure you meant Tolstoy right?” the woman stated matter-of-factly.

“Right, Tolstoy is what I meant. I mean, sometimes I get War and Peace confused with The Brother’s Karamizov. The plot structures are really…”

“The Brother’s Karamizov, huh? Which was written by Dostoyevsky. Could I just stop you right now, and allow you to admit that you don’t really know what the hell you are talking about? Would you care for a mulligan?”

“Yeah, that would be nice. Honestly, I’m about three weeks shy of getting a degree in marketing. I read The Wall Street Journal every day, and I haven’t finished a novel since ninth grade. Actually, I read the Cliff Notes version of the story in ninth grade…Come to think of it, I don’t think I have finished a novel in quite some time.

I mean, don’t take that the wrong way. I really admire the sport. The sport? I meant to say I admire people who are well-read,”  the words came out of his mouth faster than he expected them to.  It was like one big run-on sentence.

“Hmm, let’s try this. You introduce yourself and ask me my name. I oblige. You offer to buy me coffee. I will accept. You will then tell me about what you have been working on fervishly over there…I am assuming you do know what you are working on, right? ” The woman asked quizzically.

“Um, yes I do know that. Oh, my name is Michael. What is yours?”

“Annie. Thanks for asking,” she said.

“Room for cream?” he asked.

“Please,” she replied.

Four hours later their conversation was interrupted by a barista.

“Hey guys, we closed fifteen minutes ago,” he said.

And so it began. A story book romance. Two years later they had an outdoor  wedding  on a Boston summer day so beautiful that you see God Himself painting the sunset in the background. Shortly there after, they moved to Atlanta where Michael had a job offer.

Life was good. It really was. Close to three years after they had been in Atlanta, Annie found out she was expecting.  They bought baby clothes, talked about baby names, and painted the guest bedroom in anticipation. All of the usual parental things.

Finally, Maggie Joy Hughes was brought into the world in an Atlanta hospital room.

Just over a year later, Michael woke up to the baby monitor. He went to check on Maggie when he found a note on a  wrinkled piece of paper.

“I’m sorry, Michael. I really tried. Please believe me, I really did. I never wanted any of this. I never expected to be a mother. I can’t do it. Please understand that I tried.  I’ll be going now, and I probably won’t call. Please let Maggie know that I loved her, and it isn’t her fault. Thanks for loving me, Michael. I’m sorry I can’t love you back anymore,” Michael recalled the words as if they had happened yesterday.

He could recall everything from the scratched out words to the way Annie dotted her “i”s. He had burned the note long ago. He had tried to forget it ever happened just as he is trying now to be happy.

Neither has worked.

It was the first person he had every fully trusted. After that, he vowed never to be hurt again. He threw himself into his work. It worked and he began his rapid ascent up the corporate latter. The whole thing just did not feel right any more. Not like it used to.

Just as Michael pulled into the parking spot, one of his favorite Coldplay  songs came on the radio.

“No I don’t wanna battle from beginning to end/I don’t wanna cycle or recycle revenge/I don’t wanna follow death and all of his friends.

And in the end/ We lie awake and we dream of making our escape/And in the end/ We lie awake and we dream of making our escape.”

 

Day 4: Tree Hugger

There Is nothing like Christmas time in New York City.

Lights. Decorations. Food. Carolers. Coats. Hats. Scarves. Display windows.

The bright lights get brighter. The bustling city is busier.

It has been three and a half years since Estelle and Tom had moved to New York City.  The looks on their friends faces in Clearwater, Florida were priceless.

Our friends were right. I mean, who were we kidding? Who moves to New York City when they are 85? We were crazy. Well, I suppose we are crazy, Estelle thinks to herself.

It is this time of year when Estelle  feels most reassured by their decision. They were growing old in Clearwater. Estelle and Tom were much too old to grow old. At eighty-five, each day is precious. There is a  growing understanding that this life is a gift. A gift that you get to unwrap every minute of every day, should you choose to.

“Hey Mom,” Estelle thoughts are interrupted by the voice of her husband.

“Yes, dear?” Estelle responded with a slight delay.

“When are we going to look for a Christmas tree?”

“Well, we do have that artificial tree  downstairs that the Bakers gave us. It seems like a lovely tree. It stands about six fee…”

“Now, Mom, you know what I think about artificial trees? Now, I mean, if you want to have a fake Christmas, then by all means, we should put the sucker up. I, however, would prefer to have a real Christmas. We have had a real Christmas for fifty fo…”

“Yes dear, I know. We have had a real Christmas for fifty-four years,” Estelle finished Tom’s sentence.

Without fail, this was a debate that happened for fifty-four years of marriage. Estelle would bring up the convenience of having an artificial tree.

“A fake tree means a fake Christmas,” Tom would say.

Estelle had memorized the line as if it was a quote from a favorite movie. Every year, she would eventually give in, knowing how important it was to Tom to have a “real” tree.

“Well Pop, I suppose after supper we should go find us a tree then. We wouldn’t want to skip a Christmas , now would we?” Estelle said, having been convinced for the fifty-fourth straight time of the benefits of a real Christmas tree.