(Fiction: Elegant Literature #027 pg.10)
The silver truck with a bent front plate and stickers worn from the sun, pulls up in front of the beige house with the blue door where multi-colored bursts of light rush into the dark, pushing the black away. I hear the heaviness of the truck door slam and feel my body tense at the thought of his overbearing presence. The girls are upstairs, oblivious to the incoming storm. Lining the cracked cement walk, seeps the candy-caned illumination of the red and white shaped plastic. I watch through the front window, peering from behind the curtains that our cats have viciously snagged, as he moves with irritation toward the door, swatting at a softball-sized ornament, adorning the Japanese Maple. On the front lawn, the wooden nativity scene stands shoulder-high and flooded in white light, surrounded by grass that has begun to brown for the winter. I look around the living room, scanning for anything out of place, listening to the girls and assessing their level of noise. I hurry to look busy, straightening the turquoise cushions that sit slightly askew before he walks in. “Idleness is laziness,” his words repeat in my head. I hear the distant sound of metal scraping metal as he searches for a keyhole, the filtered light from behind not enough to brighten his view. His words snap at the air on the other side of the door. Icicles plummet from the roof of the porch, and Christmas lights lay cobwebbed over the front of bushes.
The mood shifts once he enters, and I find myself no longer able to relax. The lights on the Christmas tree appear to dim. I hear the anger of his keys as they fall to the ground, missing the anchor-shaped hook, he huffs and puffs as he leans to retrieve them. The garland wraps around the railing like a noose with lights snaking, weaving around and around. My heart begins to pound and my mind begins to race, thinking of all the things I could have done wrong. I glance at him, avoiding eye contact, and see the snowmen dance on the wall with red and blue scarves, one snowman missing a black foam button, next to last year’s school pictures.
When he enters the living room, I see the disdain and impatience in his eyes. Watching as he looks around, already fuming, hoping to find something to yell about. The girls rush down, giggling, chasing one another clumsily, when our youngest bumps into the coat rack, knocking the carved Christmas tree candles that belonged to his grandmother, sending them tumbling to pieces on the hardwood floor. Instinctively my guard goes up and I rise from the couch, ready to intervene. He turns around and moves towards her with his body tense and a swiftness that forces her to take a step backward. She looks at me, tears rolling down her face, silently begging for help, as he tells her to look at him. I step forward, hurrying her along as I bend down and retrieve the waxy remnants of the trees.
The Christmas village, unlit out of laziness, sits nestled among the bookshelves near the cold fireplace. Our oldest throws on her hoodie and escapes with her music to the swing in the backyard. I watch as his annoyance grows as our youngest continues to cry. I see him as he blatantly rolls his eyes when she runs to me for a hug. I throw on my coat and grab hers, scooting her along to the backyard in the chilled night. She settles in front of the large gliding swing and makes her way on, inching to the edge and holding on to the rope on either side. I see my oldest as she’s lost in her head, immersed in the music playing in her ears. I stand behind the glider and begin to push the littlest as she begs for me to go higher. After a few moments of breathing in the crisp air, my body begins to relax, sinking into the back and forth rhythm of the swing. “Season’s Greetings,” is projected in red and green on the house next door, and I listen as my daughter finds her happy place and begins to belt, “Let it go,” at the top of her lungs. Things are better when it’s just the three of us.