2005-12-23
pinching day
It's the day before my birthday. My "pinching day," as Mama calls it. Her fingers clamp down on me whenever I turn a corner. She says it's an old family custom, but nobody else does it.
I've already spotted the Carvel ice-cream cake in the freezer: with curlicue icing and a single candle. It looks like the same Magic Relighting candle that she keeps in a drawer with the knives and forks.
"I've been baking for hours," Mama says, pretending to mop her forehead. She could care less about cooking. No turkey on Christmas. Instead, we're having "smush," canned peas with chicken on rice.
At least I got a candy cane at school, which I hook over my mug and dunk in hot chocolate. It's hot outside too. But when I sit under the Christmas tree, I imagine that I'm back in Vermont. For some reason, I always read my favorite books under the branches. My cat thinks it's her own personal forest. She sits on a heating pad tucked under the needle-dusted blanket, squeezing her eyes at the ornaments.
Mama pops a holiday CD in the stereo--a honky-tonk rendition of Rudolph and fa la la. Even my Walkman can't drown it out. So I think about birthday presents, trying to picture the best from each year. I remember my first bike with the rainbow streamers and the heart-shaped bell. The stuffed Kermit from the church fair, knitted by hand. The punk-rock Barbie doll that I buried in the backyard (after painting her face with markers). I always received dolls from my friends, even though I told them, "I hate dolls." Nobody believed me.
I run out of presents to count. Why can't I remember them all? And why do I remember the things that I didn't receive--a remote-controlled Corvette or a vintage record player--instead of the things that I unwrapped?
I promise to remember this year.
f-i-n at 11:30 a.m.