Home is Where the Heart is

Updated May 2, 2020

The air is crisp and cold as it should be. I shove my hands into my pockets, ignoring the wind as best as I can. Not too far away, a little girl squeals in delight at the night's sky. There are no clouds and the stars must be shining bright. I don't look up. I don't care. Around me, people are quickening their pace. Children are laughing and chasing each other to the sound of their mothers' call. I wish I could tell them never ignore their mother's call. But I can't and I don't. I watch them all, these happy families, as one by one, they enter the church. I don't follow.

I wait.

In silence. In the shadows.

Will they come? Will I see them? A part of me wishes they wouldn't, wishes that they would stay away, while another part of me is begging them to show up. I don't pray. Not even on this night. I learned a long time ago that no one was listening. Unfortunately, this knowledge does not keep me from hoping.

There are fewer people now; only a few stragglers dare brave the cold to run some last-minute errands. I take out my watch, and see that mass would start any minute. My eyes search the area one last time, my heart heavy with regret, until I see four cars pulling up in the church's parking lot one after the other.

I light up instantly and take a step forward to have a better look at the late comers, only to retreat hastily in the shadows. They are here! They came! For a few blissful seconds, I don't feel anything as I gaze hungrily at each of their faces. The pain, I know, will soon follow, but for a moment, just a moment, I am content.

Until I see her.

My heart gives a painful pang as I recognize her in the familiar crowd. For a second, I forget how old I am and wish I could fling myself into her arms.

Mom.

She seems smaller than I remember. Her hair, the same flaming red, although shorter. From the distance, I can see how kind and warm her smile is as she talks to the blond child at her side. Megan's son. My nephew. Still a toddler.

Am I imagining the fleeing sadness in my mother's face as the boy holds out his arms for my sister to pick him up? Guilt and shame flood my heart. A few steps, one word, just one word from my lips and the world would be right again.

But I can't.

Not now. Not ever.

So I hold my peace and watch my family disappear in the church. The doors close behind them and the night suddenly seems eerily still. I can feel the cold now and yet, I can't will myself to move. To leave. Not even when I sense their presence behind me.

"Are you done?" asks the first, smaller man, with his usual impatience. "Not thinking of doing anything stupid, are you?

– Harry, give him a break, will ya? Besides, he knows better, don't you Kevin?"

I sigh without answering.

"Come on, kid; let's go home", adds the other man on a gentler note.

No matter the kindness behind those words, they scorch me.

Home.

You don't know the meaning of the word, Marv, I bitterly think. I know better than to voice these thoughts. I had long since learned the hard way to hold my tongue.

As the hymns from the church dimly fill the air, the pain suddenly hits. I grit my teeth to keep my tears from escaping as I follow the two men in silence. Before disappearing once more into the night, I take one last look at the small church.

God, I hate Christmas.