Wintering
I have always treasured my ability to find sanctuary anywhere. In constantly shifting college living situations. In a barely furnished apartment in Dublin, Ireland, a city I had never visited where I knew nobody. And as cliche as it sounds, in music. When I feel adrift or out-of-touch with myself, music grounds me and reminds me who I am. Oh yeah, I’m Julia. I love The Strokes and that makes me cool! If you asked me if I would rather be blind or deaf, which is kind of a personal question by the way, my answer would be neither, of course. But if I had to choose, I would rather be blind. Because without music I would be lost. I need music to feel at home.
…
The doors to Healy’s London abode swing open abruptly, revealing a living room, adorned with Christmas decorations and bustling with eccentric familiar faces who welcome you in from the December snow. Mom doesn’t miss a beat. Come inside, oh you must be freezing! Are you hungry? You look skinny. Too skinny. Come in, come in, mingle, and eat for crying out loud! She loves Christmas, she always has. Mostly she enjoys entertaining and Christmas is the event of the year. It’s as if her house has an instant-holiday setting; the moment the custom-printed family calendar reads “December,” stockings suddenly appear above the fireplace, wreaths on doors, mistletoe and snow globes and candy canes on every surface. The biggest spruce you’ve ever seen (indoors) quietly trudges into the living room and situates itself in the corner. Boldly unassuming, as if it had been there forever. At least you’ve never seen Mom drag it in herself. It’s magical, really. She gives you a tight squeeze and a kiss on the cheek, leaving a lip-shaped crimson mark on your face that you won’t discover until halfway through dinner, when cousin John points it out in his teasing ten-year-old fashion. She’s spent all day on her feet. Cooking, cleaning, decorating, cleaning again. She looks happy, but tired. You can tell from her stance that her back is hurting, but tonight isn’t the time nor place for the ongoing why-wont-you-just-go-see-a-doctor argument. So you head inside for more hugs and kisses and smiles, and inhale the mouthwatering aroma of Christmas dinner. It smells like home.
Hannah and John sit at the kid’s table. Well, Hannah does most of the sitting and John the kidding. She’s in grade eight now, but she more closely resembles a depleted Ph.D. student struggling through a thesis. You’re pretty sure that the bags under her eyes are exaggerated with makeup (a recent trend amongst the youth) but her melodramatic irritable glare warns you not to ask. Her eyes are locked on an open copy of Poe’s “The Raven,” which you choose to believe is more accessory than activity. She lifts her gaze only to roll her eyes at her mother, tonight’s victim, because she ruled that piano playing must wait until after everyone has finished eating. And she gives an Oscar worthy performance of pretending her brother, who jumps and fusses and curses behind her, does not exist. John is ten but has maintained the hyperactivity of a six-year-old. Most find it annoying, but you find it endearing. His spirit, though rambunctious and distracting, is infectious. You miss being his age, when your only responsibility was to behave through Christmas dinner. When he finally tires, you join him and Hannah. He says something vulgar about fat asses and her disgusted look says more than words. They’ve grown so much since you saw them last Christmas. You feel old. It feels like home.
Dad is reclining by the fireplace, manning the record player. The evening’s self-proclaimed DJ. He has a masterful queue lined up: Otis Redding, Aretha Franklin, Billie Holiday, Stevie Wonder. Though rather unemotional to the unobservant eye, he’s always had an affection for soulful music. You perch next to him on the arm of his loveseat. “(Sittin’ on) the Dock of the Bay” floods your eardrums with tranquil deception. You can almost feel the salty breeze, hear the seagulls and the crashing waves. Remember when we would flock to the sea? Spend hours on the shore listening to music. You remember, you miss those times. But life has gotten so busy lately and you rarely see Dad outside of the holidays. Just give me a date I can work on, he says. Before next Christmas. You promise. He places his palm on top of yours and you join him in a mellow hum. Dad, Otis, and you. It sounds like home.