Ritual de lo Habitual

Winter ritual? Whatever. Y’all go ahead and build your fires and put glass and popcorn on a dead tree in your living room. Hell, kill an animal, have a feast, make a big kettle of rock soup and invite a creepy old man into your home while the children are sleeping. I really don’t care. I’m practicing my ritual of trying to make the bullshit go away, and no, I’m not going to decorate it and make it pretty for you. You’re in the wrong neighborhood at the wrong time of day for pretty, so if that’s what you want or need, I’ll politely request that you get the fuck out, right now, if not sooner. This island of misfit toys is not for you.

Okay, are the prissy Pollyannas gone? Let’s get into some shit. Maybe I’ll even share the reason my middle name is exodus (no, not really. You may be in the wrong room). You’d love that, wouldn’t you? A front row seat to an unveiling of my filthy secrets. Yeah, you’ll have to pay for more than popcorn to get that.

Turned away at the inn? Boo fucking hoo. Locked out at the front door. Greeted with “Aren’t you going to apologize?” All a prelude to lies attempting to stop my wedding. “She’s a meth head!” Bitch, please. My two favorite things to do are eat and sleep, and I don’t want any poorman’s cocaine. Don’t want any rich man’s cocaine either, for that matter.

But that was later. Before we pulled up in Chicago from Augusta, I spoke to friend in Charleston. My ex was dead, run over by a car a few weeks back, in the middle of Folly Road on James Island. His last words to me were, “You fucking bitch. I hate you.” I responded with, “We’re all done here.” But we weren’t. His ghost followed me home from work fifteen years later.

Didn’t work, so ban them from family gatherings. He’ll miss us so much that he will LEAVE that bitch. Summer vacation, Thanksgiving, Christmas. The call from my MIL. Don’t come. This is a family event.

A true southerner can say fuck you without even leaning on bless your heart. I sent a centerpiece at Thanksgiving. Not welcome at the table? I’ll sit in the middle of it, between the turkey and dressing, make you think about me with every bite.

Someone else is telling lies about me this year: horrible, treacherous untruths that I’ll put a torch to on the solstice. I have something for her, too. Already sent it: an empty box with a Christmastown, USA postmark.

What would you do if someone filled your daughter’s head with images and lies that make her hate you, refuse to let you see your grandson, all because a tragic princess can’t get over herself and accept the fact that other people exist, has a burning desire to eradicate everything that came before her.

Winter ritual. Guiltmas isn’t enough, villanelles of hell aren’t enough, my last flame is really my first flame, and now you want me to put myself on display in some ritual for you to fantasize about me doing it every time the calendar ticks December? As my British friends would say, not bloody likely. And my rituals would scare you: I burn things and hold rocks in my mouth, wave a magic wand, focus my mind on things you’ll never see, tell God why I think he’s an asshole.

Let’s go to the casino and feed the mortgage to the slots. Let’s cut down a tree and put it in the house. Let’s form teams and go to Walmart for a fort-building contest. When they kick us out, let’s hijack Santa’s sleigh and give the good toys to the naughty girls and boys, dump some coal mines in little Polly Pure’s stocking, let her rake in the profits while everyone else chokes on the dust.

What’s my winter ritual? Rejection.

Jane says she’s done with Sergio.

❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️

On a serious note, here’s a powerful poem about Christmas that doesn’t lose the reason for the season and is every bit as powerful as Eliot’s “Journey of the Magi.”

Compare for yourself.

“I should be glad of another death”—T.S. Eliot