The smell of grapefruit, halved and sectioned, coffee brewing, bacon frying at one in the morning. Just home from midnight mass, a bottle of Jim Beam on the counter for Mom and Dad and their friends, the Christy's, who joined us most Christmas eves for a middle of the night breakfast. How many years did that routine continue? In memory, childhood stretches longer than it took to fall asleep once we were chased upstairs, because it wouldn't be long until Santa came.
Even when we knew it wasn't the white-bearded icon making those rustling and banging noises downstairs, we believed. There had to be some kind of Santa, something inexplicable at least. One year, after all the presents were opened, for example, some sort of magic allowed a disappointed girl to notice that, from under the sofa's dust ruffle, the corner of a wrapped box protruded; to work it forward and find her name on the label, and discover the skates she had dreamed of owning, for gliding across the ice on the rink across the street, hair flying behind, making frosty figure eights.
What shatters that spirit for so many? The contemporary composer Nicole Lizée recounted her memories of things broken, wires that shorted out, bubble lights that leaked toxic fumes.
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