Two turtledoves.
They’re everywhere. On the dining room table. In the bathroom. On the front door. In the stairway. Over the support beam for the house in the basement. On the top of the television. An at last, on top of the Christmas tree. They are locked at the lips. If turtledoves have lips, then they would be kissing. What’s missing is the mistletoe. That might be too pagan ritual. The upshot is that the basement, the center of all familial activities of mirth and merriment, there’s a crystal punch bowl filled with nog. I don’t really like nog … well maybe if it’s spiked. That’s unlikely, but I can drink it and pretend. In addition to the two turtledoves, blue, white and silver crepe paper and streamers cover almost every surface. Curious, I think. I scan the room look for Elijah or the Israeli flag. Chitlins are treif so I guess the smell of hog would keep Elijah away. Maybe. Well, wrong holiday. However, there are the fragrant smells of the sweet and savory variety: turkey, dressin’ (not to be confused with stuffing), cranberry sauce, sweet potato casserole, german chocolate cake, seven layer cake, pecan pie, sweet potato pie and macaroni and cheese. Yet, it still smells like ass. I stand next to the tree, which is a fresh pine. The pine cuts the smell of ass and food.
Anyway, two turtledoves. They apparently were a means of commerce in the ancient world. Like coins. Shekels. Joseph paid the innkeeper two turtledoves for the stable that housed them while she gave birth to savior of man.
My dad’s a deadbeat. Well, a very sophisticated deadbeat. My mom, well, I think the color of the sky in her world is fuchsia. I don’t have a real sense of her anymore. She just lets life slide by. She’s standing next to my uncle who looks like Samuel L. Jackson. I love how you can’t say Samuel Jackson without saying L.
My grandmother demands that everyone gather around her, semi circle, and listen to her recount a tale that they have heard every year for the last twenty years. This is her time and she only ask her children, their children and now, even the children’s children to listen to the creation story of the savior of the world. All family events are tied to moments like this, where she could relay to all her relations that she was in fact, blessed. And by extension they were too. Blessed. Blessed be she whose family comes together for the annual Christmas party. Blessed be she who remembers the covenant and relays in great and exhaustive detail the reason for the season. Blessed be she who selects themes for decoration for this annual Christmas party. Blessed be the internet and Tina’s computer for leading her to the two turtledoves. There would not have been a theme for the party without it.
I watch my cousin Rory. He’s twitchy and hyper. He keeps one eye open and fixed on the table full of food. He must think: This prayer thing is taking way too long. Hungry. That’s it. He’s starving. His mama was cooking all day and no grown up wouldn’t let his pudgy nine year old hands anywhere near the sweet potato casserole or the lemon meringue pie. This sucks ass, he said then. I gave him a stern look, but he smiled and said he heard me say it when I was on the phone so it must be ok. I shake my head.
The kid’s right, though. This does suck ass. And as Rory leans over to my nephew to tell him a joke as my grandmother prays and prays and prays, I pinch the boys at the nape of their necks and remember why I came home in the first place.
