Last-Minute Deliveries

Here it is: Christmas Eve. I woke this morning from a dream that felt more real than life. Every so often, maybe every six months or so, I have one of these dreams. My sense of touch is enhanced, faces seem more full—more colorful, more alive. It’s a disconcerting feeling to wake from such a world, as if you’ve just let go of your real life. If I think about it, it probably speaks more to my discontent in waking in general. Not because I’m not happy to be alive, but this can be a particularly hard time of year.

It’s supposed to be break—relaxing and slow and nice and easy. It’s not.

I worry. I feel pressure. Will the boys be happy? Will Boy 1 like the acoustic guitar? Will Boy 2 be able to settle for the Nano over the Touch? I know these things are silly, but I also know the disappointment of wanting something. Love what you've got, right? Easier sung than done.

Really, I know the boys are less concerned with their gifts than mine this year. For the first time, my dad sent them some money so that they could shop for me. They are quite proud of their choices…I’m leaning toward writing utensils (a journal? cool pens?) and maybe some warm, comfy stuff (pj pants? slippers?)…and my youngest said they aren’t opening a thing until I do. They want to watch my face.

And I know that’s it. As materialistic as my kids (and kids in general) can be, my ten-year-old has the right idea, wanting to see the results of his own giving by watching the look on my face.

So how do I feel? Pressured. I feel pressure to feign happiness for my children when I’d rather just lie down for a day full of movies. I’d sleep through Christmas if I could.

Break started rough. I guess you could say that none of my pre-Christmas presents turned out to be what I thought. “Boohoo” right? Yeah. Right. Never has a woman more often set herself up for disappointment. Even when I think I’m done with expectation, I’m wrong. So, what do I do in the face of disappointment? Try to elevate myself by doing what I feel is the “right” thing.

But I have to tell you, reader (despite the risk of sounding haughty), the view from the high road? Not so pretty.

It is as you’d expect beyond the rusting guardrails tacked to the gravel s-curves and switchbacks: a maze of sandstone fins and cactus beds, tumbleweed clogging all the yucca shoots. There is no sky because you’re already in it, high on that high road where the air thins out to shallow gasps and your mule refuses to carry another stitch. Your feet are one steep grade from gangrene and even though you know the scene is the stuff of a movie, you’ll push the mule just to watch the props swallow the view. Then, nothing. Road. Quicksand. The coffee can of pecans you sent back after he left in the night, when some black sky yet swung its scythe moon and you stretched your neck to shadows. Waning. In the distance of those fins, he is forever bending, collecting those shelled nuts he knew you couldn’t eat. Your throat swells with the thought of him four states away. You always knew the dust on his boots. Knew you were a rest stop on the way to something else. Pay for priority shipping. Pull the road's dustcover down behind you. Walk away.

And when you wake from a dream more real than life, with the worry of expectation and time rounding all your gravel s-curves, with the last real touch still warm behind your eyes, push a smile out if you have to. There are faces waiting for yours, and it’s time that you started shelling out priority shipping for the real loves of your life.