My parents both tear up at the sight of me in my Christmas tie and a blazer. I can’t wear my good suit anymore, the one I had to wear to the funeral, but there’s no viable excuse to avoid the Christmas Eve service. It was Sheila’s favorite event of the church year, and we all know it.
They hug me, then usher me to the car. The shit of it is, I want so badly to be a good son. I want to do right by my parents. I want to do right by Sheila’s memory. I also need a new way to pretend that the things that are wrong aren’t wrong, and maybe closing my eyes during “Joy to the World” will get it done.
The sanctuary is festooned in pine greenery, bright poinsettias, and plastic holly. It’s like making the salad, only harder, because there’s no one by my side to hear me screaming arugula during “Silent Night.”