nilacqua
07-21-2010, 07:01 PM
My best friend at the trailer park stared at the calendar with me for the first few days, but we usually played outside, so after that I was alone when I stared at it in the mornings. I’d wake up in my cold room, turn over and look at my bed of stuffed animals, crawl to the floor and walk to the door. I’d be in pajamas or the clothes I wore the night before. The carpet was thin, the air was crisp, though thick with dust. I wasn’t as tall as the door’s handle. I reached up to turn it, and pushed it and the door, making the space I needed to creep out. The lighting was bad as the hall had no windows. There wasn’t much light in my room either, since the Maryland winter was cloudy. Down the hall before the kitchen, on the brown plywood wall the Christmas calendar hung. I looked at it’s bright brick house, glowing windows, the snow curled around the chimney’s base.
It was there when I was four or five, maybe six. The picture, in bright reds and greens of a house in the snow, had numbers up to thirty one superimposed. The numbers weren’t placed neatly in a row, but on openings to the house: side doors, windows, chimneys, cellars, the front door. Every morning, in an awed expectant hush or frenetic energy, I’d pull open a little door or window for that day, take out a chocolate, unwrap and nibble on it.
I did this every morning for that December. As great as chocolate was, what I enjoyed the most stayed behind the open door, where would be a scene inside the house: boys and girls in bunk beds, family dinners, warm fires, kids chasing each other around the tree, odd domestic scenes, tricks played on each other, food being cooked, or people just looking out windows. I’d stare up at it, the lower edge at level with my eyes, the upper portion scenes and candies that I could barely reach, thinking for lengths of time. I’d open the doors, see what each person was doing, imagine little stories for them, expand on their scenes, smile at what was happening, think about the days still left, or just smelling the chocolate residue from the opened doors, and those unopened.
As the month went on the activities further resembled Christmas. Faces brightened, more elaborate food was prepared, every scene grew more cheerful. One picture showed children on opposing sides of an undecorated Christmas tree, laughing and reaching for each other. For Christmas day, there was a yellow tint, a decorated tree and newly awoken children staring at their presents, wide eyed; their parents behind them at the foot of the stairs grinning.
I watched the unveiling of December, Christmas and it’s anti climax leading to the new year. I paid close attention to the calendar’s shifting pattern, the row of opened doors moving from left to right, then starting the row below onwards to the last day of the year.
It was there when I was four or five, maybe six. The picture, in bright reds and greens of a house in the snow, had numbers up to thirty one superimposed. The numbers weren’t placed neatly in a row, but on openings to the house: side doors, windows, chimneys, cellars, the front door. Every morning, in an awed expectant hush or frenetic energy, I’d pull open a little door or window for that day, take out a chocolate, unwrap and nibble on it.
I did this every morning for that December. As great as chocolate was, what I enjoyed the most stayed behind the open door, where would be a scene inside the house: boys and girls in bunk beds, family dinners, warm fires, kids chasing each other around the tree, odd domestic scenes, tricks played on each other, food being cooked, or people just looking out windows. I’d stare up at it, the lower edge at level with my eyes, the upper portion scenes and candies that I could barely reach, thinking for lengths of time. I’d open the doors, see what each person was doing, imagine little stories for them, expand on their scenes, smile at what was happening, think about the days still left, or just smelling the chocolate residue from the opened doors, and those unopened.
As the month went on the activities further resembled Christmas. Faces brightened, more elaborate food was prepared, every scene grew more cheerful. One picture showed children on opposing sides of an undecorated Christmas tree, laughing and reaching for each other. For Christmas day, there was a yellow tint, a decorated tree and newly awoken children staring at their presents, wide eyed; their parents behind them at the foot of the stairs grinning.
I watched the unveiling of December, Christmas and it’s anti climax leading to the new year. I paid close attention to the calendar’s shifting pattern, the row of opened doors moving from left to right, then starting the row below onwards to the last day of the year.