I don’t know if I have much to say to you. Most of the time, I will be thinking about making it to the end.
I try every year to bring forth special things that speak love and joy, and I usually feel a fair measure of success by the time the 25th rolls around. But that doesn’t mean it’s easy. It is never easy.
This year I have help. I get to visit family in a beautiful log home. A family who loves to bake, sing, and carry on in ways that only a close-knit bunch with a long history can understand.
It helps tremendously. When it’s just the five of us, here in Illinois, it’s mighty lonely. Not that I’m not thankful for my little family, goodness gracious! But sometimes it’s not enough. Actually most of the time it is not enough. I am tired and I only keep doing this because I have to survive. I’m sorry to tell you I am not terribly happy, but you probably knew that already.
You are the queen of the unhappy. You are the gathering place for the throng of discontented. You open your arms to a tremendous lot of pain, loneliness, denial and all the ways we run away from it. You are the home of the runaways. The light in the window for the broken-hearted. The year crawls by in despair and you are the last-ditch effort to make it all make sense before the world freezes us out altogether. At the end of November, you look like hope from myriad angles.
You also look intimidating. I’m sorry, December, but you have 31 days. Do you know how hard it is to stretch a paycheck for 31 days? Do you know how much gas it costs to go to Advent services, to visit faraway families? Do you know how expensive a turkey or a ham is? Do you know how many boxes of mac & cheese we will be eating this month in order to feast in togetherness?
It’s ok, December. I love you anyway. I know you are a safe enough confidante to share the hard things with. You are the mother of “In the Bleak Midwinter.” You are the holy strain of “Silent Night.” You are the merry inspiration of “what fun it is to ride in a one-horse open sleigh.” You are silver bells and pumpkin pie and chestnuts roasting on an open fire, which I’ve had before and they aren’t very good, but they sound romantic. You did that. And I appreciate it.
Dear December, I know you try. I know you light a candle for all the tears and all the hopes. I know your colors red and green make my heart skip a beat sometimes with the beauty. I know you’ve taught me to love snow just a tiny little bit, which I thought was impossible.
Thanks for being here for me. In spite of our differences, you’re my favorite. I still believe in your magic.
I love you, December.
This post was written for this week's prompt: "Write a letter to December" from Elora Nicole through the Story Sessions group.