When I was a child, Christmas meant waking up at an ungodly hour to rush out to the living room and see what sort of presents had appeared underneath the tree while I slept. It meant dumping my stocking out on my bed and eating the orange that my mom always put at the very bottom. It meant sitting around in my pajamas while my entire family showed up. It meant a Nat King Cole record on the stereo and pictures with my gifts and a fire in the woodstove. Some years it meant packing everything up in the car and driving what seemed like hours (instead of the 45 minutes it actually took) to my aunt's house where she would inevitably have cooked far, far too much food.

Those Christmas's pretty much died the year my father did.

I go home to celebrate this holiday in a house that is not my home, with a man who is not and never will be my family.

It took me a couple years to realize that instead of mourning what I lost and could never get back, I could create a new tradition.

I had my Christmas, two weeks ago with my ten closest friends. What I do as I go home today is nothing more than obligation. I've already had my holiday. And let me tell you, I had a great Christmas.


[This has become my new favorite Christmas song..]