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ovenbird
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K. invited a bunch of us over for pre-Christmas drinks last night. I was already standing in the living room before I realized I hadn’t even knocked. I walked right in like I lived there and that says a lot about what K. and I have become in 15 years of friendship. The tree we wrestled with two weeks ago was standing, though in a Leaning Tower of Pisa kind of way, and the star on top looked set to tumble down the mountain of pine it reluctantly crowned, but the lights made everything glimmer and there were chips and dip and homemade cookies which chased away thoughts of impending catastrophe. A small knot of us gathered, already holiday weary. K. admitted to imbibing in cannabis gummies earlier in the night, almost as if she needed an explanation for her spontaneous laughter. Have we laughed so little recently that amusement needs an external justification? It’s true that I often lament the dearth of laughter in my days. It’s rare to find me doubled over and crying after being struck by something hilarious and I miss the feeling of abandon that comes with laughter that possesses your whole body and won’t let go. We didn’t bring gifts, but we brought our lives, our odd and mangled stories: someone’s student gave them a vacuum cleaner for Christmas, someone’s niece is dating a convicted sex offender, someone’s brother in law isn’t coming for Christmas dinner because he decided it was more important to volunteer at a local cat shelter. Then we watched Saturday Night Live’s recent Home Alone sketch, which seemed appropriate enough. Everything is a bloody mess, but at least there’s shortbread.
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