Post by kangaroo cry on Feb 1, 2010 18:26:45 GMT -5
YUH, I know it's long(ish). It is a SHORT STORY, not a poem. So its length is good; I am comfortable with it.
Not critique, I don't want it. Comments are DESIRED.
Post Season
The polluted air rose in clouds spat up from the tailpipes of my relatives’ cars as they drove away to airports and trains and homes far away. They were returning to the lives they occupied the other three hundred sixty-four days of the year.
Christmas was over. It was plain to see, if only I glanced at the over-glossy pages of my calendar. December 25th kept getting smaller and farther away. Soon I would turn my calendar’s page, changing the month, flipping carelessly through time, and the twenty-fifth of December would be a sight I did not see on a calendar until another year was at its close.
Across the street, the Thorn family’s Christmas lights were turned off, but still hanging frustratingly cheerfully over their garage. Next door to them, the Crawley family’s lights were in the process of being taken down and packed into seasonally appropriate red and green storage bins, along with the rest of the decorations tossed lazily around their yard. Soon the merry decorations would be gathering dust and preparing for next year’s holidays in the basement or the attic or wherever the Crawleys kept their out-of-season, unwanted decorating objects. In one glance down my street I could see at least five Christmas trees at curbs, sitting in the dirty, week-old snow, their needles giving up and dropping apathetically to the ground. The branches of these rejected trees sagged lifelessly in day-after-Christmas shame.
What I call “Post Season” is my least favorite time of year, following, of course, directly after my favorite time of year, Christmas. Those six days separating Christmas from the New Year are a black hole in my otherwise ordinary enough life. I have this moment on Christmas Day when I go to bed and I feel myself sinking. I imagine that I am in sticky quicksand or waking up buried alive, with the smell of soil and stale air all around me. The next days are lost in a marathon of ignoring calls on my part and really pulling from the depths of my imagination for farfetched excuses of why I can’t go out, ever, over break. My Christmas gifts remain untouched and I drift around in a cynical, pessimistic daze. Life is bleak. The world is a soggy coffee filter full of life’s used coffee grinds.
“Sydney.” My mother calls my name from somewhere behind me. “You have a phone call from Todd.”
I pull my eyes away from the downgrading and half-dressed yards of my neighbors and my thoughts away from coffee filters. Today is December 26th, the first day of Post Season. Most of my friends have learned not to call or come by after Christmas, and Todd has been my friend longer than he has been my boyfriend. I cannot imagine why he would call.
I scowl, my back still to my mother. “Tell him I’m asleep.”
There is a split-second moment then where I feel my mom’s eyes on me, asking me to turn and look at her, but I don’t. Then my mother replies, “I would, Syd, but it seems important.”
Neglecting to push my bangs out of my face, I turn and stalk inside. I make my excuses to Todd—blaming a cold for why I cannot go anywhere that day—and get off the phone as hastily as I can.
Todd calls to check on me once a day, every day, and I keep up my stream of excuses, letting a new one drift his way when an old one expires. On the last Post Season day, December 31st, he shows up at my doorstep. I am unlucky enough to be the one who answers the door, killing all my chances of ignoring him.
“Sydney,” he says as I pull the door open, and his face instantly lights up. His nose is red and his hands are tucked deep into the pockets of his jacket, which is zipped up almost to his chin. He looks cold, but his eyes look thrilled to see me. “I’m sorry to just stop by. I have a surprise for you, though, and I’ve been trying to take you out all week to tell you about it. It’s ready now. Will you come with me to see it?”
All I can do is stare at him. I know that I am already softening to his request; I can tell by the way his hand is slowly reaching for mine, and I’m not pulling away.
“I’m in my pajamas.” The half-hearted protest floats up from the depths of my mind, like a tiny air bubble escaping to the surface from the bottom of the ocean floor.
“So?” Todd asks, his fingers now firmly interlocked with mine. He takes a step closer, and I tilt my head up to keep my eyes on his. “You can change, if you want. I don’t mind waiting. Or you can come just as you are now. No one but me will see you.”
“Where are we going?” The question is natural to ask, but the hint of excitement in my voice is not natural to me.
Todd can tell, because the corners of his mouth lift shyly in response. “I told you.” He says, leaning in. “It’s a surprise. Now, come on.” He kisses me on the cheek. “Or do you want to change?”
I do not really want to change because, after all, it is still Post
Season and I am still supposed to be on the couch watching movies. But it’s Todd. And it’s his tentative, slow smile and his red from the cold cheeks and his fair hair and the birthmark on the hand that’s holding mine, and the way we have been friends for so long and the way he is still trying to lift me out of this short-lived melancholy after all my excuses this week. I can already feel the tingle in my body, the excitement waking me up, breaking through the Post Season.
So I go.
I pull my jacket around me and get into Todd’s car. He turns on the heat as soon as he can and drives away, and I sit in fidgety silence.
After ten minutes of driving he is leading me through his backyard and telling me to close my eyes. I abruptly feel the atmosphere change and the brutal winter wind disappear and know we have gone inside. I hear his whisper to open my eyes; I do, and suddenly it is Christmas all over again. There is so much red and green that it transports me back to Christmas morning, in all its over-abundant decorated glory. Lights wind and glitter their way around the perimeter of the ceiling, adding a radiance to the dusk inside what must be his family’s shed. There is a tree, loaded with garland and ornaments, and on top of every surface is some kind of Christmas decoration. Nutcrackers and snowmen and gingerbread men are crammed into every free space, along with a couch somehow fitting in the corner. A battery-operated campfire sits glowing happily in front of it.
“I know how much you love Christmas, and how sad you get when it ends…Sydney, I think you just forget how to be happy.” Todd directs my attention to a Christmas countdown on the wall. ‘Number of days ‘til Christmas:’ it reads, ‘zero!’ “So I made you a place where it can be Christmas for you, all year long. And I know it’s in a lousy shed and it’s cold here, but…”
I swallow. There is something in my throat and in my eyes and I am surprised to find myself overcome with emotion. “Thank you,” is all I can whisper, “Thank you so much.”
It is here; Christmas is here. The decorations are a wonderful touch, but I most feel Christmas in Todd’s selfless act of giving. That is what Christmas is to me and it’s the way I feel now, with Todd’s hands on my shoulders and that beaming smile on his face at my happiness.
And that is the moment I am cured of my thoughts of coffee filters and useless, sad decorations and abandoned Christmas trees; it is that moment that I am cured of Post Season.
Not critique, I don't want it. Comments are DESIRED.
Post Season
The polluted air rose in clouds spat up from the tailpipes of my relatives’ cars as they drove away to airports and trains and homes far away. They were returning to the lives they occupied the other three hundred sixty-four days of the year.
Christmas was over. It was plain to see, if only I glanced at the over-glossy pages of my calendar. December 25th kept getting smaller and farther away. Soon I would turn my calendar’s page, changing the month, flipping carelessly through time, and the twenty-fifth of December would be a sight I did not see on a calendar until another year was at its close.
Across the street, the Thorn family’s Christmas lights were turned off, but still hanging frustratingly cheerfully over their garage. Next door to them, the Crawley family’s lights were in the process of being taken down and packed into seasonally appropriate red and green storage bins, along with the rest of the decorations tossed lazily around their yard. Soon the merry decorations would be gathering dust and preparing for next year’s holidays in the basement or the attic or wherever the Crawleys kept their out-of-season, unwanted decorating objects. In one glance down my street I could see at least five Christmas trees at curbs, sitting in the dirty, week-old snow, their needles giving up and dropping apathetically to the ground. The branches of these rejected trees sagged lifelessly in day-after-Christmas shame.
What I call “Post Season” is my least favorite time of year, following, of course, directly after my favorite time of year, Christmas. Those six days separating Christmas from the New Year are a black hole in my otherwise ordinary enough life. I have this moment on Christmas Day when I go to bed and I feel myself sinking. I imagine that I am in sticky quicksand or waking up buried alive, with the smell of soil and stale air all around me. The next days are lost in a marathon of ignoring calls on my part and really pulling from the depths of my imagination for farfetched excuses of why I can’t go out, ever, over break. My Christmas gifts remain untouched and I drift around in a cynical, pessimistic daze. Life is bleak. The world is a soggy coffee filter full of life’s used coffee grinds.
“Sydney.” My mother calls my name from somewhere behind me. “You have a phone call from Todd.”
I pull my eyes away from the downgrading and half-dressed yards of my neighbors and my thoughts away from coffee filters. Today is December 26th, the first day of Post Season. Most of my friends have learned not to call or come by after Christmas, and Todd has been my friend longer than he has been my boyfriend. I cannot imagine why he would call.
I scowl, my back still to my mother. “Tell him I’m asleep.”
There is a split-second moment then where I feel my mom’s eyes on me, asking me to turn and look at her, but I don’t. Then my mother replies, “I would, Syd, but it seems important.”
Neglecting to push my bangs out of my face, I turn and stalk inside. I make my excuses to Todd—blaming a cold for why I cannot go anywhere that day—and get off the phone as hastily as I can.
Todd calls to check on me once a day, every day, and I keep up my stream of excuses, letting a new one drift his way when an old one expires. On the last Post Season day, December 31st, he shows up at my doorstep. I am unlucky enough to be the one who answers the door, killing all my chances of ignoring him.
“Sydney,” he says as I pull the door open, and his face instantly lights up. His nose is red and his hands are tucked deep into the pockets of his jacket, which is zipped up almost to his chin. He looks cold, but his eyes look thrilled to see me. “I’m sorry to just stop by. I have a surprise for you, though, and I’ve been trying to take you out all week to tell you about it. It’s ready now. Will you come with me to see it?”
All I can do is stare at him. I know that I am already softening to his request; I can tell by the way his hand is slowly reaching for mine, and I’m not pulling away.
“I’m in my pajamas.” The half-hearted protest floats up from the depths of my mind, like a tiny air bubble escaping to the surface from the bottom of the ocean floor.
“So?” Todd asks, his fingers now firmly interlocked with mine. He takes a step closer, and I tilt my head up to keep my eyes on his. “You can change, if you want. I don’t mind waiting. Or you can come just as you are now. No one but me will see you.”
“Where are we going?” The question is natural to ask, but the hint of excitement in my voice is not natural to me.
Todd can tell, because the corners of his mouth lift shyly in response. “I told you.” He says, leaning in. “It’s a surprise. Now, come on.” He kisses me on the cheek. “Or do you want to change?”
I do not really want to change because, after all, it is still Post
Season and I am still supposed to be on the couch watching movies. But it’s Todd. And it’s his tentative, slow smile and his red from the cold cheeks and his fair hair and the birthmark on the hand that’s holding mine, and the way we have been friends for so long and the way he is still trying to lift me out of this short-lived melancholy after all my excuses this week. I can already feel the tingle in my body, the excitement waking me up, breaking through the Post Season.
So I go.
I pull my jacket around me and get into Todd’s car. He turns on the heat as soon as he can and drives away, and I sit in fidgety silence.
After ten minutes of driving he is leading me through his backyard and telling me to close my eyes. I abruptly feel the atmosphere change and the brutal winter wind disappear and know we have gone inside. I hear his whisper to open my eyes; I do, and suddenly it is Christmas all over again. There is so much red and green that it transports me back to Christmas morning, in all its over-abundant decorated glory. Lights wind and glitter their way around the perimeter of the ceiling, adding a radiance to the dusk inside what must be his family’s shed. There is a tree, loaded with garland and ornaments, and on top of every surface is some kind of Christmas decoration. Nutcrackers and snowmen and gingerbread men are crammed into every free space, along with a couch somehow fitting in the corner. A battery-operated campfire sits glowing happily in front of it.
“I know how much you love Christmas, and how sad you get when it ends…Sydney, I think you just forget how to be happy.” Todd directs my attention to a Christmas countdown on the wall. ‘Number of days ‘til Christmas:’ it reads, ‘zero!’ “So I made you a place where it can be Christmas for you, all year long. And I know it’s in a lousy shed and it’s cold here, but…”
I swallow. There is something in my throat and in my eyes and I am surprised to find myself overcome with emotion. “Thank you,” is all I can whisper, “Thank you so much.”
It is here; Christmas is here. The decorations are a wonderful touch, but I most feel Christmas in Todd’s selfless act of giving. That is what Christmas is to me and it’s the way I feel now, with Todd’s hands on my shoulders and that beaming smile on his face at my happiness.
And that is the moment I am cured of my thoughts of coffee filters and useless, sad decorations and abandoned Christmas trees; it is that moment that I am cured of Post Season.