Christmas at the Petrellis has always been a semi formal affair. Relatives and friends swarming in, people dressed up impeccably showing up the parties they host. This year, 1984, nothing much has changed. There are professionals, busy setting up the grand Christmas tree, decorating the house. There are cooks in the kitchen preparing exotic dishes that none of the family really likes but still eats politely.
Nothing changes, until a newly- turned- five, Peter demands he wants to set up the 'treamers on the tree himself. The decorator glances at the matriarch of the family, who nods her assent. They help the little boy put the glittering, colorful streamers, then the angel… the stars… the candles.
Teenaged Nathan watches until it's too much and jumps into the fun with his little brother.
It's the most fun any of them had ever had at the holiday; Angela observes. It brings up a new meaning for "Christmas spirit" for her, one that involves love and enthusiasm and family.
Looking if her husband's busy with papers or on the phone, she decides that it's okay to let her hair down a bit.
Soon it's the three of them, mother and sons, taking up the tree, or down, having shoved the professionals away to see to the rest of the house. They have fun, they bond, they live up to the phrase. In that one moment, the detachment and the distance seems to vanish. When Angela mentions what she had been thinking, because it's a default or an old conditioning that brings out confessions at being close to people she loves at a Holy day, Peter tugs at his brother's arm and asks what ' the spirit of Christmas' is. Nathan laughs, picks up the boy and sits him on the broad base of the ladder. "It's you, Pete." He says. Peter's brow furrows in confusion and he says he's not dead and only dead people are spirits. Nathan chuckles because he's sure Peter doesn't even know what 'dead' truly implies. "Spirit, means a lot of things, what ma meant, you won't understand now, just that you brought a change to our Christmas tradition this year, a good one." He adds emphatically, ruffling the kid's hair.
But Peter doesn't understand.
He does, more than 20 years later, when he sits Indian style on the floor in front of the newly decorated Christmas tree, his mother's head on his shoulders. Your the spirit of our Christmas this year Nate, but you aren't here. We miss you.