All I Want for Christmas is You

When I was in sixth grade, I asked Santa for a CD player for Christmas. Compact Discs were all the rage. Players were finally being mass produced. I couldn't wait for the elves to manufacture and red-sleigh ship mine. 

On Christmas morning 1993, there it was: a big rectangular box, the letters S-O-N-Y revealed under Santa's signature wrapping paper, two big speakers, a cassette player, AM/FM radio with such a sleek little antenna, and there on top, the open button that magically unveiled the mechanism to spin a shiny, beautiful, little futuristic record. 

And wait, what was that? Those, I should say. Three more little gifts to open. Ah, my first CDs: Mariah Carey's Music Box, Barbara Streisand Back to Broadway, and Julie Andrews Christmas Treasure. A perfect summarization of my unrefined music tastes then and now.  

I tried Julie Andrews first; it was Christmas after all. I ripped the cellophane off the case, which was difficult with my chewed up nails. It wouldn't open still. Come on. But then, ah, I noticed little round stickers on each edge. I removed those as well, also difficult without proper nails, and finally cracked it open ... wow, awesome. I carefully popped the CD out of the case, and placed it into the machine, everyone gathering around to witness how it was done. I closed the lid. Pressed play. And watched the disc spin from outside the oculus as a little humming sound whirred through the air. Magic. And there she was - Julie Andrews - her voice as sweet as Mary Poppins. I remember my Dad commenting on the clarity of the sound as my brother and sister calculated the days till next Christmas when they could ask for their own boom boxes. 

The following Christmas season, for St. Nick's Day, I received Mariah Carey's Christmas album - a compilation where every song seemed better than the next with perhaps one exception that could be deemed best of all. All I Want for Christmas is You. My siblings and I played that one over and over on my CD player, dancing through the kitchen, stirring the dough of our Christmas cookies to the beat, running back to the pantry to press the repeat button as soon as it ended. Classic 1990s. While the meaning of the song was lost on a girl who still had a long list for Santa, the melody captured me and perhaps over the years the unselfish sentiment started to rub off. 

***

Fast forward 25 years or so, and my kids have been telling Siri to play Mariah's Carey's All I want for Christmas is You all December. They love dancing to it, but in this crazy Pandemic year, I think they are drawn to it for reasons other than its catchy beat. 

Christmas was another holiday we spent alone this year. And perhaps because the season carries so many moments and memories of togetherness, the loneliness was more apparent. 

I think the kids felt it as well. A couple weeks ago, I asked Mary what she wanted for Christmas. She hadn't written a letter to Santa yet, hadn't trusted me with her secret wish list, and even at this prompting, she remained stumped. She said she would let Santa pick a gift for her. Surprise her. 

She stopped. No paused. I could tell there was something more, so I waited, ready to listen. 

'What I really want is Mimi,' she said. 

My heart broke and I didn't know what to say. 'We all miss her' came out, but I questioned if that was the right way to respond.

I thought of all the people I wanted to see too - those I miss, along with Mimi. I gave Mary a hug, wondering if that was anywhere near enough to empathize with how she was feeling. 

This year has had so many holes in it - whether you lost loved ones or just lost moments with them - experiences that you can't get back. And the holidays make those gaps more noticeable. An empty chair, a leaf of the table you don't need, a downsized menu, and for us, an extra hand to help with the magic making - someone to hold the babies, take Margaret for a walk, run around the yard with Bobby to drain some of his energy, or give Mary the extra hugs she needs because she is missing so many. 

Despite the gaps, we did it. As much as we could, we held on to traditions. We cooked and baked the food that carries the holiday feels. I set the table and ironed the Christmas linens. We lit candles and the fire place. Santa flew into town, leaving footprints by our fireplace. But it wasn't easy and behind the scenes, I felt like I could crack at anytime. 

Around 5:00 PM on Christmas Eve, as I took out all the seafood I had bought, the thought of an elegant little feast of seven fishes seeming crazier and crazier by the second, I stifled a tear or two that were ready to disturb my quiet calm. I was cooking for the two of us basically. There were babies crying, a kid needed help with the potty, one wanted another glass of lemonade, a movie got turned off, the subdued desire to open every present under the tree threatened mutiny, a thought that we should be at Mass right now surfaced, and there I was, thinking I was going to sauté squid tentacles in peace. The next tear got heavier, and I thought it would land, but I stopped it. I stopped myself. How ridiculous of me. How blessed we are. How fortunate. Stop thinking. Stop. Stop.  

I finished stuffing the calamari, ran upstairs, put on my lipstick, got the camera and starting taking pictures. Documenting a special Christmas Eve and Christmas Day. Gathering photos to remember that despite being just us, we have us. And that was all we really needed. 

           

But still ... all I want for Christmas next year is you. And you, and you, and you. Your whole face. Without a mask. And without the fear of catching or spreading this terrible virus. 

Until then, I'll keep humming there's no place like home for the holidays. 

Lo.