“Tell me a Christmas story,” she said. She wrapped and I moped.

“I hate Christmas,” I told her. “End of story.”

“Tell me the story of why you hate it and spare me the religious hypocrisy, rampant commercialism spiel, I’ve heard it before.” She wrapped a hockey stick and I considered asking why bother, but decided it was just one of the Christmas things I’d never understand.

“Once upon a time a boy was visiting his uncle.”                                                                         

“How old were they?” she asked. “Pass me the tape.”

“The uncle was thirty- nine and the boy was fourteen. It was early September and the Pope had recently died. The uncle asked the boy if it was a good thing or a bad thing to be a Christian and die on the same day as the Pope. A month later the uncle called to say he was dying. Two months after that, on his fifteenth birthday, two weeks before Christmas, the boy and three friends were expelled from school for being drunk at a high school dance. One week after that the uncle and his new wife arrived at the boy’s house. The sight of his wasted uncle combined with his own guilt was difficult to take. The boy’s mother did not want her brother or any of the other relatives to know of her son’s disgrace so for the last week before Christmas the boy had to pretend he was still in school. It was very cold, the boy had no drivers license, teens were not welcome to just hang out in the mall, all except for three friends were in school and their parents did not want them associating during their expulsion so the boy did not have many options. He hung out in coffee shops or pretended to be shopping or sometimes he jogged at a local track until he puked. Mostly he wished that it were he who was dying and having all his relatives around saying how much they loved him. Early on Christmas morning surrounded by family the uncle died.

“For reasons that were never explained, though he assumed it was a punishment for his expulsion, it was decided that this fifteen-year-old boy should accompany his father to the morgue to pick up the corpse and deliver it to the crematorium.  When they arrived with a cardboard coffin a hospital employee rolled the body out of a drawer. It was wrapped up like a mummy. The orderly gave them a gurney to put the box on, but refused to give them any other assistance. They did not know that rigor mortis does not stay in the body so were surprised when they each lifted up an end and it bent in the middle. Another thing they did not know was if the body is not going to be viewed later they don’t put much effort into sewing it up after the autopsy. So when it tipped on its side while they were trying to get it into the box it leaked… a lot. The blood soaked through the bandages and by the time they got it to the crematorium it had leaked through the cardboard coffin and had frozen to the back of the truck. 

 A couple of years later the father tried to talk to the boy about that day, but he was a couple of decades away from being able to talk about it.

“The funeral was held New Years Eve in the uncle’s hometown and was attended by a great many people. At the end of it a close friend of the uncle sang “Amazing Grace” and the boy’s grandfather wept. He had never seen a grown man cry before and the sobs sounded like they were being ripped out of him. The boy would never be able to listen to that song without hearing the old man’s sobs.

“At the wake, the boy told his grandmother about not being in school and asked if he could spend the rest of his time off with them. His grandmother was a very kind person and even though she’d just lost her son said of course he could come home with them. She was surprised that he hadn’t come to their house right away since he rarely stayed at home when he wasn’t in school. Most vacations he stayed with them or other relatives or sometimes at camp, but rarely at home. His mother was furious when she found out, but that’s where he spent the rest of his month off.”

There was a long silence and finally she asked “Did the boy have an answer for the uncle when he asked about dying on the same day as the Pope?”

“He didn’t then, but he would now. It doesn’t matter one way or another when you die. Dead is dead.”

She punched him in the shoulder.  “That’s a horrible Christmas story.”

“Life’s like that, you don’t always get the story you want.”

“Well, I’m the woman and I want a different ending.”

“You can’t demand a new ending.”

“If you want sex again this year, you’ll give me a better ending.”

“Well, if you believe that this is all there is, it forces you to realize how precious this life is. You can’t kid yourself that things will somehow be better the next time. It’s kind of like that ‘Live, Love, Laugh’ poem you have on the fridge. You know the one that says “Sing like you’re Yoko Ono, dance like a preschooler with a full bladder, curse like you’ve got touretts syndrome.”

She smiled at him.  “It’s not exactly the Hollywood ending I was hoping for, but it’s an improvement.”

She cuddled up to him and said, “If I try to keep the Christmas stuff to a dull roar can you try to be here in the moment with me?”

“Yes,” I told her, “I think I can do that for you.”