Holidays in my apartment
This year was the first time I spent American Thanksgiving without my parents, sister, and grandma.
To be fair, I should say away from them. We had a bittersweet FaceTime chat, dialing in for a 15 minute call to say hello. I was passed around on the phone to each of them, the longest with my grandma and sister. I heard about their meal, the pets, the weather, coronavirus precautions. I shared that we began a puzzle on the coffee table, an activity purchased at the start of quarantine meant to tide us over with 750 pieces of fun while we are trapped indoors, belatedly peeled out of its shrink wrap. My mom commented that we weren’t very far along (we’d started about 2 hours earlier) and mentioned they needed to take the dog out for her walk, my dad in the background quietly clipping on a leash and wiggling her into a small sweater. We exchanged our love, said we missed one another, and wished it wouldn’t be too long before we saw each other again. The last time I was with any of them in person was last Thanksgiving.
I love spending the holidays right at home. Growing up, we never left the house on Christmas, a privilege I’ve since learned is rare for people with extended families, multiple households, different circumstances. I always appreciated that my parents kept us in pajamas, lounging and ripping open presents from each other and Santa. Once we got the coffee running and grabbed their slippers and robes, my sister and I could rouse my parents and then play all day. Nowhere to go (unless my dad was on call for work), no pressure, a holiday as a true break just for us.
Jason and I have spent Christmas just the two of us, plus two cats, since 2015. This is our home. I carry a tree three blocks with Jason and up to our third floor, scattering needles. We decorate with colorful string lights, old ornaments from Grandma’s basement, a glittery star on a spring we bought together the first year we needed one and called a placeholder but never replaced. This is where we stay and get lazy, luxuriating in our time together. We have a tradition of going to get bagels, from the same shop every year, and then reading our books or playing video games and grazing all day. We often have a lasagna at night. We even did this in Ottawa 2017, popping across the street to grab Kettleman’s Bagels and scurry back. We’ll always end the night with a Christmas movie and cuddling and coaxing the cats to understand the blankets are, in fact, not lava. Last year was Home Alone, I believe, and assorted Die Hards the years before.
I love keeping Christmas just for us. I find it even more special for now. We’re so lucky quarantine won’t stop it. It is quiet. It is small. It is ours.