The Strand

The winter sun falls sooner than the day before as I reach for a loaded shoebox tucked away in a closet behind extra rolls of double ply. Wrapped in an old newspaper is a strand of holiday lights. They aren’t the reds and greens I bought at the store two years ago or the twinkle lights I got on clearance last January 23. They’re the kitschy Looney Tunes lights from when I was seven.

It’s hard to remember where I got them, but I can still smell the perfume Mom wore when she helped me hang them in my childhood bedroom. I remember her tucking me into bed, then gently rubbing my forehead as my eyelids grew heavy and the lights grew dim. She quietly unplugged the strand before leaving my room. I can hear the coffeepot growling from the kitchen as I drifted to sleep. Dad poured Mom a cup to share in hopes that it would keep them both awake long enough to wrap presents and mark them from Santa before hiding them in places they sometimes couldn’t remember come Christmas Eve. Dad always stayed up about an hour less than Mom.

I remember the next morning; I woke up late on my first day of winter break. It was the day my dog chewed off three of the lights. I’d have stopped her if I weren’t busy building snow castles with my brothers in the front yard. Mom and Dad were inside doing parent things—baking and cleaning, napping and organizing. Our faces were red, and our feet were cold, despite being wrapped in old shopping bags and snow boots, but my brothers and I went inside as soon as it got dark, and I again lit my bedroom with the now-three-fewer strand.

I unwrap and untangle them now as an adult, and the memories of that time come rushing back to me at the speed of twinkling light. I can hear my old dog barking and the grunt of my dad’s familiar snore on the brown sofa we had two years too long. I can smell the butterball cookies my mom had in the oven, nutty and rolled in powdered sugar, a recipe passed down from her mom, and if I close my eyes, I can see my brothers, who are now men, as boys, one with oversize glasses and the other with the crooked nose he earned from a middle school basketball game.

It’s now my first Christmas without my family, and I wish the tears could numb the sadness that fills my heart when I reach for that dusty old shoebox. Instead, the tears fall on the bulbs, and I use the vintage paper to wipe them dry. It makes the strand look shiny and new for a split second, but then I see the place where my dog chewed, and I plug them in and notice the three that are still out all these years later. The memories escape as the tears dry and the lights flicker. I breathe in and try to hold on to the smells, the sights, the sounds elicited by the strand, wishing I could have my loved ones near me again in more than just a memory that fades each year.

Pain barges through the door, often unexpectedly, destroying everything in its path while you try to catch your footing and kick it out. Heartbreak, though, it taps quietly on the door, sneaks in when you’re not paying close enough attention, and infects your surroundings. It leaves you off-balance, dizzy, and unable to process what’s happening until it’s already too late. A broken heart can be put back together, but it’s never the same. The heartbreak is here now, and I’ll never be the same. I can’t fix it or kick it out. I can only coexist.

I proudly hang my childhood lights on a side table, and although they look cheap and worn next to the modern decor, I don’t care. I don’t care that they don’t shine boldly like they used to or that they don’t match the other bright white lights on my fake tree. I don’t care that I’m attaching such importance to some item that sits idle in the back of a closet for eleven months out of the year. I don’t care because when I need my loved ones and they’re not close enough for me to hug, plugging in the strand is the next best thing.