Single Christmases

It was Christmas Eve in New York City. Christmas morning, actually, since it was midnight, and she had just started her 12 to 8 am shift as a typist for a law firm, one of those dumb jobs you do when you're young so you can pursue your artistic passion. Her whole family was on the other coast.

As she walked home just after dawn, she saw what appeared to be the top of a Christmas tree somebody must have trimmed off, about two or three feet of trunk and branches sticking out of a garbage can. She carried it home. She made popcorn and strung it to garland the tree. She made other ornaments. She sat by her tree and cried.

He, when he had Christmases alone, he drove. Once, after a marriage meltdown, all the way from Michigan to Florida. Once from Seattle to Kalaloch, where the gray waves rolled in with a freezing wind. He didn't feel any better, but at least he was moving.

Another woman loved her Christmases alone. "But you had the kids, didn't you?" I said.

"Oh, no. They were with their dad."

"But didn't you miss them?" I said. And then I remembered, and she reminded me, how welcome a break is when you're a mom. She loved those Christmases.

What I'm learning from your stories, and I thank you for them, is something I know I'll be learning until the day I die. The worst thing about a bad day is our expectation that it will be different.