Chair Roulette

Thanksgiving is in the rearview mirror. The lights are up. The streets are decked. We are in full fa la la. I am good with that. Christmas is my favorite time of year. It’s too short. Weeks of pulling decorations from attics and stapling strings of bulbs to roofs require more than just a month of adoration. That’s my opinion. Though I am best suited for warmer climates, there is something very nurturing about warm socks, warmer mugs, and cozy blankets. Everyone knows fall and winter clothes are superior to summer frocks. I am an expert on this subject, having spent all my only-child hours dog earing page after page of the Sears & Roebuck fall/ winter catalogue, dreaming of the day my parents would say, “Go ahead. Order anything you want.” I had a perpetual list ready to go. Brown loafers with thick, wavy soles, saddle leather knee boots, an aubergine corduroy blazer, Jordache jeans with the jewel toned rhinestones, I wanted it all. And, here I sit, a much older version of that same tween, still longing for material fulfillment. We all have an internal catalogue full of lists of the things we were never gifted. I’m mature enough to admit that, finally. It’s just that my wishes have changed. With each new wrinkle, every newly silvered hair, what I want feels eternally just beyond my reach. I want the chairs filled again. I want to see them. I want to hug them. I want to feed them. All my beloveds from years gone by, I very much want you back with me, if only for one holiday feast. I can see it so clearly.

Creak. Bump. Slam. There goes that darn screen door. Someone let the front door bounce off the wall. That could only mean one thing. My daughter is home. I can see myself sitting at my grandmother’s table, the one right here in my kitchen today. Chynna would be to my right. She always sat to my right. Her plate would be a sea of beige: dressing on top of potatoes with a gallon of gravy and enough rolls for a small country. I would raise my eyebrows at her as the room filled with her giggles. She’d proudly announce, “Look, Momma, no carbs left behind.” What stories she would tell. Living on a Doctors Without Borders ship is an exciting life, after all. Or maybe she would entertain me with the musings of a large animal vet in Colorado. I’d make her promise to play Angels We Have Heard on High on piano after dinner. She taught herself that one. Oh, how I miss her infectious laughter and the smell of her head, a mix of fresh dill and roses. But, her seat is suddenly empty. I am confused. Deeply wistful.

Someone else is speaking to me. I turn left. It’s my grandmother, Lucille. She looks like Betty White. I always thought that of her. She is still wearing those 80s era glasses of hers, the ones with the temple bars that attach at the bottom of the oversized, round frames. I can tell she went to the beauty shop recently. Every white hair is glowing – perfectly curled and placed. She wore her mauve pantsuit today. Her fingernails are painted in Estee Lauder’s Rosa Rosa. Instantly, her face is as familiar to me as my own: the pointy little nose with the upturned tip, the brilliant green eyes. She’s mid joke, probably an Aggie version. Maybe it’s the one about the lady at the store register with the duck call. I laugh the easy laugh that comes with hearing a joke a million times yet appreciating the skill of the teller. “What’s that, Grandma?” I ask. She says, “Oh, I just wondered if you saw the story yesterday. I tell you, that old Stefano is something else.” She’s never missed an episode of Days of Our Lives since it aired in 1965. Her presence is as comforting as a loaf of bread in an oven, aromatic and yummy. She makes me feel like I can finally exhale. But, she becomes fainter and, in an instant, she’s gone.

The next voice haunts my dreams. If you blindfolded me and made me listen to 500 people sigh, I could pick my mother out in .5 seconds. There’s no mistaking her low, slow rhythm with the exaggerated twang and enough vowels to make a consonant jealous. I am inexplicably filled with intense emotion. I blurt out, “Where have you been? I couldn’t make the dressing. You’re the only one who knows how.” She looks at me, long and hard. My mother always had a way of seeming upset at herself, even when she’d done nothing wrong. I recoil, realizing I have injured her somehow, with no intent to do so. “Momma, I’m sorry. I just miss you so much. There are so many things I forgot to ask you.” She looks 38 again, just like in the picture I remember, taken in front of the Christmas tree. We rarely had Christmas trees. My mom had this huge cactus in an old butter crock. When years were lean, we would hang ornaments on Crazy the Cactus. But, this particular year, my dad took an axe into Mr. Ballard’s pasture to chop down a scraggly evergreen, and my mom posed for a photo. I was her photographer. The shot burned in my memory is one where she looked very serious, as if someone was asking her a question from another room, but she dared not look away. Her auburn hair was feathered away from her face. She looked contemplative and peaceful. Now she reaches her long slender fingers toward me, resting them on my hand. “Sweetie pie, your dressing is perfect.” And, just like that, I understand. The song is right. Sometimes, you really can’t get what you want. But, indeed, if you try sometimes, really try, you just might get what you need. May the dining room chairs of your heart be ever full this Christmas season. God bless us, everyone.