We stop in the middle of the trees, light surrounding us in every direction. It’s like a fairy tale. A Christmas fairy tale. Beautiful, and much to my surprise, better than any float in any parade. A place where a man might drop down on one knee and propose to the woman of his dreams or a couple just starting out might fall a little bit in love.
“Thank you for letting me force my way into being here,” I say, looking from the trees to him, a million little lights reflecting in his eyes. “My kids would love this.”
“You should bring them,” he offers. “When they’re with you. Or next year.”
Bring them?
Every other year of the holiday season has every square of the calendar filled with things we do every year on every day. This is the opposite of all that. This is quiet. Simple.
“I have the International Space Station,” Marv announces from deeper in the trees. “KD9JDF. Do. You. Read. Me? I’m in the lights, ISS. Follow the light.”
Jay and I stand there, looking at each other for one, two, three heartbeats. And though it’s been a while, I don’t know him at all, and I’m extremely out of practice, I like looking at him. Like him looking at me.
I tell myself it’s just the trees. Just the effect of the lights and my loneliness playing tricks on my head and my heart. Whatever it is, for the first time in years, standing in this once-was Christmas tree farm in the middle of the hills, I’d love nothing more than the man standing next to me to take my hand in his and tell me he’s happy I’m here.
“These trees suit you, Hollis the Writer,” Jay says, taking a step toward me, close enough I notice.
My breath stills. Our eyes hook and hold.What is happening?He reaches a hand toward my face—slowly. I cannot breathe. Just over my skin, he pauses.
Then pulls a twig out of the yarn of my hat and my breath gushes out of me when he shows it to me.
“From the wagon ride,” he says.
“Ha.” My blood moves through my veins a little faster. “Twigs.”
A small smile curves his mouth, and we stand in a brief silence. Him cool as the breeze with lights reflecting brightly in his eyes, me with a foreign feeling making my skin feel too tight.
“We should go make sure Marv doesn’t get abducted again,” he says around the rim of his mug, amused lilt to his voice.
I nod, press my cold palms tightly against the warm mug, nerves settling.
“That would be quite the Christmas story,” I joke, following his lead.
We stroll through the trees until we find Marv, then the three of us walk together, sipping our adult hot chocolates until they’re empty.
On the wagon ride back to the barn, the conversation is light. No more family or traditions, just three people in the woods. Marv tells us about a guy he bought a ham radio from who had pigeons living in his house and newspapers covering the floor. Jay laughs easy at everything he says, giving me a wink right before he asks him to tell me another story. Like he’s saying a secretget ready.
Nothing about tonight with these two strangers is ordinary or makes sense, yet the sadness I’ve carried with me seems to melt—just slightly—like an icicle in the morning sun.
I don’t remember to miss the parade I didn’t go to again until I get home and open my computer.
The Promise of the Parade
By: Hollis Hartwell
The wonderful thing about parades is they don’t always happen. They’re special. They require planning and anticipation. Demand us to make decisions on the perfect chair to bring and perfect spot along Main Street to put it.
Then, when the stars align, the music will start, the floats will roll out, and everyone from the town plumber waving a jingle bell–covered plunger to the dentist dressed as a giant molar with elf ears will roll by your seat and spread Christmas cheer.
But what if the parade eludes us? What if it’s too early, too late, or the wrong day altogether? What if, like me, your heart is too dinged and dented to attend?
As kind and merry as the parade is, it will not reschedule. Its promise is to carry on. It won’t care if it’s your chair along Main Street or someone else’s. It is the lesson of tradition: be here or not, the show must go on.
On the day when eager faces lined the annual route and waited for Santa to cruise by, I found myself next to my unexpected holiday guides being dragged to the middle of nowhere. Only it wasn’t nowhere at all; it was a Christmas tree farm turned modern marvel, which effectively stole my breath and stopped my heart. And,because I want to be nothing less than honest with you, I wasn’t even really dragged. I just went.
Sure, my fuel was an abominable mixture of sadness and loneliness, but there was also curiosity too. A lingeringwhat if?dancing at the blurred edges of my thoughts and propelling me toward strangers and an unknown destination in the woods.
There were no crowds. No fire engines blaring their sirens. No kids catching candy. It was not showy. The magic there was of a different variety. Like the pull to shake a snow globe then being unable to look away until the last flurries settle on the bottom, this unassuming display demanded attention and stillness.
