Alex,
There are years, and have been for me, during which the holidays become a long, lonely walk through a dark wood. Perhaps something irreplacable has been lost. You stand before an icy path listening to the sound of bells, but you can't recall how to follow them. Even if you could, last year's coat wasn't made for this cold. And why should it be? You don't know the person who wore it any more than you know how to walk toward that goddamned ringing. You can't remember a hearth, or a warm hand, or the smell of cinnamon and ginger - oh, you can, but you can't bear it, so you tell yourself that you don't.
But there are also years that feel like a fresh snow. the first one of the year, an early, unexpected rush that knocks all the yellow leaves down. It's strange to feel a beginning here, but I do. God, I do.
I love you for a thousand reasons and in a thousand ways, but today in particular I love you because I can't wait to wake up on christmas morning. I want the entire horrible, embarrassing ordeal - crackers and pudding and scratchy wool sweaters. (and yes, I will even consent to these matching ones you sent me. I am that thankful.) I want new traditions with you, and because they will be by your design, I am confident they will be ridiculous and sacrilegious and wonderful. I want to crackle across the radio with a christmas address that's only an itemized list of your holiday sock collection, beginning with the ones that have father christmas in a cowboy hat on them.
Put your chin on my shoulder, love. Climb under the guilt. Remind me what joy feels like. You do it every day, darling - shouldn't be too troublesome fot you.
Thank you for meeting me in the wood.
Thank you for leading me home.
Happy christmas,
Henry
Casey McQuiston on Twitter, Dec 25 2020.
