The gate to our building is in need of an oil and every time it squeaks open I think it’s someone coming to see me. Though usually, it isn’t.
It’s the morning of Christmas Eve and it’s about twenty degrees colder than last year. Still warm though. You’ll never get used to a hot Christmas, so there’s no point in trying, but tradition isn’t just about temperature. You need to be at your parents’ house. You need to be twenty-five years younger.
We won’t have turkey tomorrow, but today I’m making a recipe my dad makes every year and that is akin to closeness. Even across ten thousand miles.
It’s Christmas Eve morning and I’m waiting for my best friend to text to say she’s ready to skype. And every time I hear the gate squeak I think, That’s her!
Though of course, it isn’t.
A version of this post was sent by email on the 23rd December 2017 as part of Internet Care Package.
ICP is a weekly email that includes memoir-ish snippets like the one above, links to great articles and dog memes. This blog is a select archive of those emails. Subscribe to get them right in your inbox.
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