“From Mom” “From Dad”

A lifelong friend calls to inform me that when he feels the urge to sadden himself, he will do so with a personal memory of mine. The earliest recollection from my childhood with my family naturally together amuses him in such a way that I struggle to understand. I was five during Christmas while suffering from divorce’s shellshock; three months fresh, or something like that. Being so young, I couldn’t grasp it all, as expected, but I was sure of one thing: my father should not have been there. Yet, to my surprise, his forearm leaned on the banister at the end of the staircase and he smiled as I wrinkled myself awake. When I rumbled down the stairs to kiss his cheek stubble pricked my face with a painless touch. “Hey bud!” rung through my ears and hugged me affectionately. Already, I sensed that this morning had a special feeling to it. Afterall that day was Christmas! Spirit and cheer should be in the air! Coal-filled presents teased my anxiety to the credit of my older sisters. I wore a weaseled grin as I awaited the chance to devour wrapping paper. “After we eat” my mother had said. So I stuffed my face and flew into the living room before swallowing a mouthful of eggs and bacon. Unfortunately, I couldn’t be Santa’s Helper that year because I couldn’t read, although I wish I could have. I imagine this would have been the last time my presents would not be individually labeled by my parents; something I’ve thought would be worthwhile to remember. I appreciate their effort for trying to make our situation slightly more inconspicuous. My guess has always been that they assumed I hadn’t caught on. Everyone, besides me of course, wore counterfeit faces while we opened gifts like the normal do with Christmas exchanges, except these forgeries were not due to the lack of appreciation for the gifts. Years have gone by and I’ve been tempted to feel worse for my sisters than myself; they understood. Thinking back, though, I’m thankful I wasn’t my sisters’ age. Unlike them, I could get away with saying “Does this mean you’re still together?” and have my comments brushed off without detriment. Never did get an answer; not in words at least, just from the image of my father pulling out of the driveway through a fogged window.
This memory stands alone as it marks all I have really ever known. The last time with all of us as a legitimate unit and we weren’t even that; my life’s scaffolding. Although, I have grown to appreciate their effort in spite of my resentment I have still removed myself from this moment long ago.What perturbs me is is that my friend finds it so fascinating. Perhaps the appropriation of other’s’ pain helps some deal with their own. This has never been a tactic of mine. I cut him off before caring to let him explain. “You’re welcome ‘old friend’” I say. “I’m glad we’ve been so useful.”