I just dropped my son off at school after a week at Disney. He was a blur of down jacket, crocodile tears and trembling bottom lip. There was a freeze while we were gone and all my plants are withered. My house shows no signs of holidays but I can feel it. I can feel the cold draft and know it can be rectified with a crackling fire. The neutral home scent that can be dolled up with a cinnamon candle and spruce needles. The anxiety of things that need to be done intermingling with the comfort of knowing that they will. The decorations, the elf, the tree, the finals, the gifts, the night shifts, the impending doom, and the satiating winter cold. Eventually, they will.
Today I have a piece in the Atlantic online. Growing up, my mom always subscribed to the print magazine, as her mom always had. It’s always been a staple in my family: My parents, my grandparents, my aunts and uncles. I remember being very small and stealing my mom’s copies, hiding away and…
You guys and your stupid bullshit pretty Christmas trees and lights can all go fuck yourselves. Mine aren’t up yet.
(I love you)