Christmas Eve

My eyelids fluttered like their wings, and I opened my eyes to see the morning sneak into the bedroom.

I slept fitfully on Christmas Eve. Memories moved through my mind slowly, and I lay in bed as still as possible so I wouldn’t chase sleep away.

That night, like many in the past, I thought about Christmas and the birth of Christ. I imagined fear and confusion commingled with the arrival of the baby. I wondered at the details—a manger, straw, animals, a young mother, the sweating pain of childbirth, and hope. The melody of “O Little Town of Bethlehem” drifted around my pillow as the lyrics quivered by my head.

Then, soft, flickering lights waved in front of me, and I watched the dim set of my Kindergarten Christmas play materialize. The grade school cafeteria was filled with the families of boys I don’t know anymore. I remember waiting in an orange plastic chair, my feet dangling. I stopped swinging them as the song, one of my favorites, began. I hear it now in the dark.

The shadows of the cafeteria begins to sparkle with my Christmas tree—artificial but heavy with tinsel and lights that gleam in the polished ornaments hanging like ripe apples. I am opening presents and smile at the excitement. I still remember. The rustle of wrapping paper hid the sound of the phone ringing until the repetition cut through the noise of Christmas. The sound stopped, and my memory froze, stuttering ahead but interrupted by my mother’s crying. Her grandfather, my great-grandfather, had died early that morning—dying on Christmas.

I listened, straining to hear anything, and softly, a melody grew, surrounding my dreams and me with them.

Then, I thought of his brother while I lay in the dark. I called him uncle. He was quick to laugh, and his back was bent, hiding his height and broad chest and shoulders. He relished decorating for Christmas, and my dream swung me outside to stand in front of his house, where he had wrapped lights around the metal railing on each side of the front steps and stapled them along the eaves of the porch.

The bulbs were big, blue, green, red, yellow, and throbbed like neon. The lights inside were amber, making the cold, blue night shiver down my collar and hustle me toward the steps and inside. I saw my small hand grab the railing and slide it toward a blue bulb, looking toward the front door and imagining the warmth against me when I opened it. Then, I felt the burn as my hand grabbed the hot bulb, and the dream flickered like my eyelids.

I swallowed, and my throat burned from dryness. The scratchiness reminded me of another sleepless Christmas night in my teens when delirium from infection made me toss uncomfortably on sweaty sheets in alternating fits of fever and chill. Still restless, I gently rolled my head to the side and fought to sleep. Still, there was a sadness, and I shut my eyes together to turn off the memories.

The early Christmases lapped at my memory until sleep blew over me like a breeze from an open window. The heaviness hid me from my thoughts, but my dreams, like oil dripped on a wet road, spread out like a prism.

My eyes blinked from sleep in my dream, and I talked with my grandmother over cups of coffee at the kitchen table. Most people in my dreams were gone. Death had caught each one.

Then, still with her coffee, she sat on the couch, watching my sons open Christmas presents. They were moving from toy to toy, unsure of which to claim. They were young, in Christmas pajamas, hair flying with static. They held up gifts to show my wife and me. We smiled and feigned an intense interest in action figures and toy cars. As I handed a toy back to my son, I looked up, and years had passed. Each boy looked more like a man. My grandmother was gone, and I walked to the kitchen.

There, a turkey sat on the stove and a shallow pan. The counters were full of food. The tea kettle was on a burner, and steam blew from the spout. It should have been shrieking, but I heard nothing. I listened, straining to hear anything, and softly, a melody grew, surrounding my dreams and me with them.

The dreamy refrain of "O Little Town of Bethlehem" grew louder and stirred up the corners of my dreams. I watched scenes flicker by like the clicking of a movie projector.

I saw smiles and tears and gifts that had been lost or broken. Straw from a manger was strewn across my dream. So were stars and tinsel and lights. I saw my memories roll slowly, then increase in blurring speed.

Far overhead, Canada geese blew a scratching call across a glowing December morning. I heard them in my dreams. My eyelids fluttered like their wings, and I opened my eyes to see the morning sneak into the bedroom.

I reached over and found my wife’s hand. I squeezed it, and she stirred. “Merry Christmas,” I said.