hot buttered rum

Christmas isn’t about decadence or pageantry,
It isn’t about the shimmering grandeur and elegance
Of black-tie affairs, with beautiful ladies trimmed in lace
And flowing bottles of sweet ripple and peppermint flavored champagne.
It isn’t about brown paper packages tied up with string
Or lovers passionately making out under the mistletoe;
Christmas is about family dysfunction:
At the table
All conversational etiquette,
Codes of mingling
And appropriate topics of debate
Are thrown to the wind.
Violent and swift hand motions
Punctuate arguments,
White-knuckled fists pound against the tabletop
Underscoring and emphasizing the poignancy of each claim,
Rattling nearby silverware and china.
Drinks spill, staining the tablecloth blood red,
Dishes fly like saucers across the sparkling, chandelier lit ceiling
And smash against the opposite wall
Breaking into a thousand porcelain pieces.
The shards are collected,
And catapulted in a showering bombardment
Of ceramic daggers and verbal darts.
And the war wages on.

Christmas is about finding ways
To avoid getting caught in the crossfire.
My aunt fixed me a drink:
A hot buttered cider, infused with brown sugar,
Cinnamon, nutmeg and rum—her most recent
Concoction spawning from her newfound
Rediscovery and love for the pirate’s ale.
There we sat, grinning, sipping away at the brew
From coffee cups, like we were casually drinking afternoon tea.
But we were armed with much more than merely a foamy beer coat.
Wrapped in warm suits of armor, we were prepared,
With mugs inappropriate for the occasion,
Filled to the brim with liquid courage,
Allowing us to bravely face the insanity
That is our family.

Christmas is about remembering:
I remember every Christmas, before my grandfather died,
He would sit in the armchair by the window,
Watching, patiently waiting for us to arrive.
No matter how late it was when we pulled in,
There he was, smiling, waiting to greet us
And invite us inside from the cold.

Christmas is about the delegation of work in the kitchen:
This year, I was the designated eye-wiper of the onion cutters,
Dutifully dabbing and blotting the tearing lids
Of the weeping choppers.

Christmas is about pretending to like the relatives
You secretly despise, and pretending you’re not gay,
And that you can’t keep the ladies away from you.

Christmas is about donning horizontal stripes
As to appear larger so that the vulture great-aunts
Do not swoop in for feeding.

Christmas is about midnight meals
Of buttered toast dipped in chocolate milk.

Christmas is about the conversations you have over cigarettes—
When you say you’re “going out for some fresh air”
But everyone really knows what you’re doing
And you feel like you’re fourteen again—
Conversations about the entanglement theory,
And how curing chest-colds by spitting into wood stoves makes perfect sense,
Because your bacteria is linked, regardless of where it is festering,
And if it is burning in the fire, it must be burning away in your lungs as well.
Conversations about the strange, orange glow
Of the sky of upper state New York at night.
And about the healing powers of hippy lettuce.

Christmas is about coming together with your designated few—
Your kindred company—despite whether or not you’re linked by blood,
And sharing what little you have with each other
So that you may survive this holiday together.

“"But at least we all will be together, if the Fates allow,
From now on we'll have to muddle through somehow.
So have yourself a merry little Christmas now"”