Entry 4: Christmas Blessings

Summary: Angela and the family celebrate a festive, poignant, and emotional Christmas together.

Author's note: This entry is not part of canon. It was originally published in December 2005, and I took the opportunity at the time to write a Christmas entry, suspecting that this particular Christmas would have been very important to Angela. I hope you enjoy it.

It seems so unfair that Christmas Day only lasts a mere twenty-four hours. A day that brings such joy and togetherness should last at least twice as long. And I can't remember ever being quite as saddened by the conclusion of the holiday as I was this year.

My holiday actually started on Christmas Eve after I tucked Jonathan into bed. Even at eleven — nearly twelve — Christmas brings out all of that little-boy excitement that parents dread to see wan as the innocence of childhood turns into the pessimism of adolescence. While the literal existence of Santa Claus has become dubious at best, my baby refuses to have his suspicions confirmed, preferring instead to talk endlessly about shopping and buying presents for everyone while still paying due tribute to Santa's visit. I overheard him telling Tony over breakfast that some boys at school were picking on him for refusing to admit he didn't believe in Santa, and Tony told him that it was a belief in the spirit of Christmas that was most important, and as long as Jonathan had that, then there would always be a Santa Claus.

Sam has been home more as the holidays arrived, going as far as to pass up a night out with Bonnie to have dinner with us. I know she's still dealing with her grief over her grandfather's death, and I think the memorial dinner helped her recognize the importance of family, something her dad is proud of. I think we've all had that particular lesson reinforced by Nick's passing, which may account for this Christmas being so memorable.

After I tucked Jonathan into bed, Tony and I began what has become our annual tradition of lugging presents from their various hiding places to their rightful spot under the tree, joining the ones Sam and Jonathan had so carefully placed earlier. Every combination of our names could be seen on the "to" and "from" labels, as well as a few from Santa thrown in for good measure. As I arranged the presents as artfully as space would allow, Tony disappeared into the kitchen, only to return a few minutes later with two mugs of hot chocolate, and a tray laden with fudge, thumbprint cookies, lemon squares, biscotti, kolache, and pizzelles from Mrs. Rossini. In addition to everything else he's brought to my house, I can thank Tony for introducing me to all variety of ethnic holiday cookies!

We sat nibbling on the cookies, watching the lights twinkle throughout the tree. Whether it was the moonlight filtering though the window, or Bing Crosby crooning about his dreams of a white Christmas, or just the nostalgic magic that seems to go hand-in-hand with Christmas Eve, I began to feel a tug inside me to tell Tony some of the emotions swimming in my heart. Not knowing how to begin, I confessed that I had never had kolache before I met him. I couldn't help but laugh at his scandalized expression, but before he could say anything, I told him it was only one of so many ways he has enriched my life. I told him that I had resigned myself to quiet, lonely holidays in which my only pleasure came from making the day special for my son. I never dreamed that I would have a family of five to share the day with.

For what seemed like the first time in a long time, we talked about how much of a family we have become, with Tony even going as far as to throw in an off-color joke about the one obvious difference. It was reassuring to know that he sees the same sibling-like behavior in Sam and Jonathan that I've always marveled has come so easily to them. And he even tentatively admitted that it's nice to have someone special to share a cup of hot chocolate with on Christmas Eve, a sentiment I could hardly deny.

Eventually we made our way upstairs, both a bit surprised to hear the grandfather clock sound its midnight chime just as we reached to top of the steps. Pausing in the hall, I couldn't quell the trepidation I always feel on those occasions we part for the night, alone in the seductive stillness of the house. Sometimes I want so badly to carry his company with me behind the walls – both real and figurative – that keep us so far apart. But the words are lost in a quagmire of inhibitions, leaving me with barely the ability to whisper goodnight before opening the door to my room. Tony spoke my name, and for a moment, I thought, as I've thought so many other times, that maybe this time would be different, but he just met my eyes, his own looking as though they're trying to say something he couldn't, and finally he whispered, "Merry Christmas." Despite the disappointment that was all too familiar, I couldn't help but smile.

The next morning, the tension that accompanied us to bed was a distant memory as we piled into the living room with Mother and the kids. Tony insisted on getting out the camcorder, making me thankful I had stolen five minutes to brush my hair. But I'll always be grateful that I have Jonathan's expression on film as he opened the microscope that proudly proclaimed it was the brand used by the Smithsonian. Following suit, Samantha let out a piercing squeal as she unveiled a pair of tickets to see Madonna at Madison Square Garden that Tony and I practically had to walk across hot coals to get. No doubt the yellow leather boots and denim jacket from Mother will be her outfit of choice for the event. The biggest surprise came when the kids presented us with the gift of a long-forgotten photo of all five of us taken at the Fergusons' wedding a year ago. They had the picture enlarged and framed with a small brass plate on the bottom that read "Our Family." It was fifteen minutes before I was able to stop crying long enough to utter a coherent sentence, and even Mother and Tony had to wipe away a few stray tears.

I wonder if it was merely coincidence or some grand orchestration by only heaven knows who that the last two gifts to be opened were mine and Tony's to each other. After the kids' gift, I didn't think I had a tear left in me, but when I opened the wrapping paper to reveal a soft, leather-bound journal, my eyes filled again. Embossed on the front was a perfect rose with the word's "Angela's Journal" inscribed below. He said he'd noticed that my makeshift journal, which was really nothing more than a composition notebook, was losing its binding. Not that he'd read it, he stressed, but he'd seen it on my nightstand one day and noted its weathered state. So this is officially my first entry into my new journal, and though I will record the sentiment, I doubt I'll ever need to revisit these pages to recall how much this gift means to me.

The Mets season tickets I had to beg, borrow, and steal from a client garnered such effusive praise and a display of excitement that rivaled anything Jonathan enacted, that the momentary regret at not getting something more sentimental was quickly dispelled by Tony's obvious, genuine glee with the present.

It's a rare year that so many presents carry so much meaning. Even Mother was not exempt from the touching display as she presented Jonathan with his grandfather's pocket knife. I don't know if it was Nick's spirit reminding us all of the importance of family, or perhaps it was the after effects of Tony's graceful decline of the job in Washington. Or maybe we were simply making up for last year when we spent the day apart. But ultimately, we carried a sense of solidarity with us throughout the day as we played Tony's father's old records, dancing around the living room they way we did during our first Christmas together, and then we carried plate after plate of food into the dining room for a feast fit for royalty. After dinner, we contented ourselves telling stories of Christmases past — those Mother and I spent with my father and Tony's spent with Marie, and before that, his father and grandfather. Sam and Jonathan, for once, didn't seem bored to tears by stories of their parents' childhood, and I guess the same could be said of me when Mother told us of the Christmas she talked Uncle Cornelius into carrying his sleeping bag to the roof to wait for Santa. Not once did the phone or doorbell ring, and it was long after midnight when Mother finally retired to her apartment – never having left for the date with Santa she claimed to have scheduled for the evening – while Sam helped a protesting Jonathan up to bed, clutching the baseball mitt Tony said no boy should be without.

As the children disappeared around the corner of the landing, I began to clear the plates of cookie crumbs and cups of cider, knowing that once I stopped moving, exhaustion would take over. Tony tried to tell me to go to bed while he took care of everything, but in all honesty, I wasn't ready to leave him and put an official end to the day. It was hard to believe it had been more than twenty-four hours since we'd sat gazing at the tree, talking about the day to come. Then suddenly, I was walking back into the living room, lit only with the twinkling glow of the Christmas tree, when Tony took my hand and pointed up at the mistletoe that I had pointedly left packed away, not daring to tempt fate. How it found its way back to its customary spot above the kitchen door, I can only guess. I started to ask how it had seemingly materialized when Tony said simply, "Must've been Santa Claus," before he leaned in and placed the softest, feathery kiss on my lips, lingering far longer than last year. "Merry Christmas, Angela," he said.

If there could have been a better conclusion to what was the best Christmas of my life, I can't think of it. Finally snuggled up in bed, I knew the true blessing of the holiday. Take away the earrings from Sam, the leather pocketbook from Jonathan, and even this precious journal, and I still have the four greatest gifts in the world.