"February will arrive and we will still be waiting for December 24th".
Dinner at the grandfather's house. A thousand shades of fake snow making for a tropical cliche. Men dressed in white, women dressed in colors.
With mismatched shoes, she spent Christmas in the TV room along with her uncle watching "Christmas Around the Globe". He smoked, she observed.
A reporter shows the streets of Manhattan. Paris. Mexico City. Tokyo ... abundance camouflaging empty hearts. When did our rituals became so faltering?
It's an answer we learn with the departure of some and the arrival of others. A perpetual symphony that only a few commit to live.
There were times Lucinda wished to belong, she wished that her existence didn't feel so small and incomplete.
For there was the kitchen that exuded a scintillating scent of cinnamon and sugar. French toast: the reason for being.
The "demystifier" of all things.
Fears bent, standing in the living room like entities, watching life: still.
The jokes and debaucheries echoed to that place of essences and returned to their owners weighing twice as much.
Vapors, smells, noises and dishes, pots and pans crafting their magic. Dogs licking the floor and wagging their tails as if they had found the largest bone in the yard.
A frantic coming and going of appetizers and cutlery hid Lucinda who had her fingers on the luscious crust of the pecan pie.
As she entered the TV room a man dressed in Santa Claus costume in the streets of Quito waves to the reporter and whispers "hola, Lucinda".
Dreams weren't made in China yet.
“Writing, real writing, should leave a small sweet bruise somewhere on the writer . . . and on the reader.”
Clarissa Pinkola Estes