Now, I watch vintage ballet performances as a way to remind myself why I fell in love with dance again. The credits to The Nutcracker with Mikhail Baryshnikov and Gelsey Kirkland roll while tears fall down my face. I have a junky DVD player, and yes, I still have the DVD of one of my favorite ballet performances of all time. This particular classic from 1977 was a gift from my mom, and even though it was filmed before I was born, the ballet was a deep part of my childhood. The whole thing triggers a sense of nostalgia as it meets an ache in my bones. I want to be Clara, finding a nutcracker who happens to come alive as a prince.While other kids were falling asleep to Disney movies at night, I was falling asleep to the brilliance of Tchaikovsky, imagining how I would one day dance the pieces that had already begun to mean so much to me. And while The Nutcracker is infamous across the world, this television adaptation of the story has stayed with me throughout my life.
Many people may not realize that there are a few different versions of the beloved ballet. Some versions call the main character Marie. Others will call her Clara (which is my preference). Most uniquely, while the most popular choreography I’ve seen is to have a pas de deux between the Sugar Plum Fairy and the Cavalier, my favorite way is asperformed in the 1977 version—the Nutcracker Prince himself dances with Clara.
What was once nothing more than a wooden toy comes to life, breathing, feeling, and enjoying a dream world with Clara before they realize that, at some point, the dream is over. The dance creates the most gorgeous storyline of a young girl awakening to love and, ultimately, saying goodbye to the one she wanted to hold. No dream can last forever. But the idea that someone can be woken to life and then be forced to revert to the ways things were before because time ran out is one of the most compelling pieces of dance that has stayed with me throughout life. I pause the performance and sigh into the fur of my beloved golden retriever. “C’mon, Resin.”
He’s named for the type of substance that keeps my pointe shoes together. Resin has done the same for my life. He’s a steady companion who’s currently curled up on my lap with his head leaning on my chest, and he’s been staring me down ever since I started crying during the grand pas de deux.
Grabbing my empty pint of peppermint stick ice cream, I push off the couch and walk to the sink, the spoon hanging partially from my mouth as my phone lights up with a notification. Freddie, my brother—also known as my hero—has sent me another reel. No doubt, it’s a reel that will either make me cry from laughing or just simply cry. I make a mental note to call him tonight after I haven’t just finished bawling over a ballet that I’ve seen hundreds of times (yes, hundreds).
At least my family tries to keep the loneliness at bay during Christmastime. They are my rock. Freddie is in the military and is currently at a base on the West Coast. Growing up, we were inseparable, but our five-year age difference meant that by the time I started to get interested in boys and was trying to figure out how to navigate my feelings, he had enlisted. The reality of an older brother in the military could only go so far with punkteenage boys when I didn’t have him to walk the halls with me at school or his presence at home before a date.
Despite this, the pressure to be perfect weighed on me in Freddie’s shadow, threatening on the edges of our relationship to pull us apart if I compared myself to him. Nevertheless, through letters and video calls or voice memos, we’ve managed to remain as close as two siblings can be.
My parents, John and Mandie, were high school sweethearts. Now, they’re the epitome of a gorgeous couple who have loved each other through the joys and heartache, exemplifying a life lived well. They founded the Birch Borough Inn. It’s situated in the middle of town on the other side of a small community park, close enough to join in the festivities each season but private enough to be away from the hustle and bustle. They both went to Boston University and represent the most New England-type of New Englanders one could know. My mother makes clam chowder in the summer, and my father owns multiple pieces of sports memorabilia from every Boston and New England team. During their time in Boston, they also picked up the accent. You’ll hear them say “pahk” instead of “park” and “cah” instead of “car.” They are the type of people who would have been cast in the 2020 “Smaht Pahk” Super Bowl commercial. And I love them for it.
At least they have each other, I comfort myself. And I have them this Christmas.
Grabbing my dance bag and shoving a protein bar and an electrolyte packet next to my giant water jug, I kiss Resin on the head before putting on my boots.
“We’ll be together soon, my little love bucket,” I say to his brown eyes, noticing pieces of fur disrupted in the middle of his head where I kissed him.
I step outside my apartment. I live in the small unit on the second floor, where my friend, Lily, used to live. Glidingdownstairs, I emerge in the frigid air and walk toward the rushing river. The swiftly moving water runs through town and seems to give a sense of cadence to the seasons and the events that unfold.
It’s exceptionally cold, and I’m thanking my lucky stars that I decided to wear my lined leggings and an extra pair of socks today. Since it was just Thanksgiving, they even have turkeys on them, but they’re hidden in my boots. The vibe is festive. Bright-red ribbons are wrapped around the historical lampposts that line my street, a nod to the holiday season that’s just beginning.
Lorelai Gilmore from the top-tier TV show Gilmore Girls claimed she could smell snow. I would adamantly say it’s the same for me. I can sense the gorgeous sharpness in the air right before the perfect flakes appear from heaven and remind me that even things that fall can create something beautiful. You can’t see the intricacies of an individual snowflake unless you have the proper microscope. I can’t always appreciate the beauty of my own life until I zoom in.
I think I love Birch Borough most in the winter. We may have an abundance of town events throughout the year, but the ones that take place around Christmastime are my favorite of all. I love more than the lights hung all around town, bathing all the shops and the streets in a warm glow. And it’s more than the special pastries at Sparrow’s Beret. It’s the way that Lorenzo of Lorenzo’s Pizza dresses as Santa Claus every year and the way that Grey wraps up books for people in town, writing their names on them like the biggest game of Secret Santa you’ve ever played, except they’re all from her. I love the way the quiet of the fresh snowfall seems to remind my lungs to breathe. The crackling of wood fires in cozy homes and the scent of smoke that laces the night air are deep comforts that settle into my soul.
Grey and I are still the very best of friends, as were our moms. I got to grow up with mine, but Marlee, the one for whomtheir family bookstore is named, was taken by cancer when Grey was seven. The loss has forever marked her and her father, not to mention our town. While Grey lost her mother at a young age, she inherited her mother’s love for books. After the tragedy, our families intertwined even closer, as loss often tends to do with the people who remain. Grey spent many days and nights at my house while her father kept the bookstore afloat and spent time at the hospital during Marlee’s last days. Books became a huge part of both of our lives, and while Grey never shared my love for dance, she’s always claimed the music at the dance studio was the best background noise for her to read.
As winter whisks its way into our lives, its arrival brings the joy of the season but also the memories of that one night. Sometimes, I wonder if life consists of mirages. Are there moments that aren’t real but somehow feel achingly tangible?
Now, I count Christmases instead of years, each return of the holiday season a painful reminder that my prayer to find my partner is still waiting to be answered.
People talk about the pain of heartache during a breakup. It’s undeniably a pivot, a moment when you thought someone would fit into your life, and they just don’t. But I hardly hear anyone talk about a certain kind of heartache that comes when you open your heart, and nothing ever comes of it. There’s no reward, but there’s also nothing devastating. There are only splinters left behind, pointing to the idea that something could’ve been built if given the chance. It’s a drowned match, a lone sock, a haunting melody of a song that could’ve been.
Sometimes, I think about my lucky ribbon, the one I gave Jace, and I wonder if it was at that moment that I lost the part of me that held on to hope. Objectively, I love my life. I have so much for which to be thankful. There’s Grey, who’s closer than a sister, and I have other dear friends in this town and people whoact like my family. I own a dance studio now, and it’s the very one that I learned to dance in.
But I’m lonely. Eight years after that fateful day we met and never saw each other again, the state of my heart is altered, at best. Against my determination to block the memories, my heart keeps going back to Jace. The disappointment of never seeing him again after our perfect meet-cute has embedded itself so deeply in my lungs that it’s enough to make me gasp in the middle of the night, especially in the winter.
When he never showed up for our date, at first, I was in shock. Then I was worried. Next followed the anger. I searched for him online, only to realize that all I had to go on was him telling me he was one of four siblings, his sister’s name was Mina, aka M&M, he taught boxing, and he enjoyed building things. He was from New England, which we had in common, but we had agreed not to give too many details about ourselves so we could live in the moment. That night at Four Leaf Cookies, we shared heart things more than logistical things. That method proved to be about as useful as a burnt Pop-Tart: a waste of a perfectly good thing. It’s not even the fact that I was ghosted that’s hurt the most over the years. It’s the fact that our connection was so effortless that it left an impression on my very soul, an intricately worked stamp whose mold no one else has been able to match.
That was what Jace and I were. We shared a—dare I say?—magical evening of connection and the promise of more. We kissed, and it’s the memory of it that grips my mind like a vise. When I’m between sleeping and waking or holding a cup of tea in my hands and willing it to warm me from the inside, I remember. I waited for him. And he never showed.
As I walk toward Marlee’s Books—which is the only independent bookstore selling both new and used books within a ten-mile radius—I have to admit there is comfort during thistime of year. I can’t help but smile as I pass familiar faces all around. Liam is filming content with his cat, A-cat-pella, on a snowy stump across the way, an ushanka hat perched on his furry head. The lights are glowing in the windows of Sparrow’s Beret, and I see Gladys’ arms waving at me. Down the street, Ollie is guiding shipments of what must be toys into his shop, his cane tapping against the sidewalk as he follows Henry, our weekend UPS delivery man, into the store. No doubt, he’s preparing for the increase in holiday sales and visitors—mostly in the form of children who want to fill their wish list with things from Santa.
I continue walking, relishing the sight of so many of my friends going about their evenings. Birch Borough is an old-fashioned town, a nod to the type of days that many don’t experience in our modern times, days when people still knew each other and read the local paper. We have town meetings and annual events that bring everyone together, including tourists and people in surrounding towns. Most of us believe we could have our own television show, but I also think we guard this place, treating it like a well-kept secret as much as possible.
As I approach the bookstore, I spot Grey placing a pile of books on a shelf before picking up a strand of garland and heading toward the window. She’s wrapped it around her shoulders and pinned one side before she sees me outside the window. Her eyes widen behind her cat-eye glasses, a smile breaking out on her face as she waves me in. The familiar creak of the shop door and the squeal of my best friend, as if she didn’t just see me yesterday, bring a smile to my face.
“Decorating already?” I ask, dropping my dance bag unceremoniously on the floor. In an hour, I’m teaching the foundations of ballet to young dancers. I deliberately left my apartment with enough time to grab a cocoa from Sparrow’s Beret and visit with my friends scattered about town—the perksof walking everywhere and living in a place where most of my life is lived within half a mile of home.
“Of course!” Grey says happily, a piece of stray garland stuck within her light-brown hair. I pull it from her strands before tossing it in the trash can. My eyes catch on a book that’s open with a sticky note poking out of it.
“Found another book, huh?” I ask, knowing perfectly well that she did. When Grey was around ten years old, she discovered that her mom had written notes on the inside covers of many of her favorite books in the bookshop. Since that moment, Grey has collected them. The found books now sit on their own special shelf behind the counter, properly entitled “Marlee’s Shelf.” Some townspeople bring the books back if they discover they took home one of the treasured notes, but Grey has developed a whole set of rules around them. She doesn’t go searching for them; they have to find her. But when a customer brings a book to the counter, it’s fair game for her to check. And since first making the discovery, she’s pulled the clues left by her mother and created a sort of road map for her life from their goodness.
“What is the wisdom for today?” I lean toward the book. “I could use a sense of direction these days, I think.”
