Most weeks I write a column, typically connected in some way to popular culture, for a web site called Pajiba. In one of my more recent pieces I conceived of a scenario at a dinner party where each guest was required to stand up and relate a Christmas memory that was for whatever reason, vivid to them. For the most part, almost all of the remembrances were happy and optimistic, an implicit testimony to the safety and security that family offers.
Of course, my imagination is primarily contained within the privilege of my experience, and in the culture I’ve resided Christmas has always been a happy time. Obviously, this isn’t the case for everybody. For many, it can be an amplification of what’s absent, an obnoxious orgy of consumerism and fake-grinned social obligation and in some cases, a forced visitation upon a past that many have fought their entire lives to escape.
I live in Toronto now, but I grew up in Ottawa where my parents and sister still live. It’s almost always an unadulterated joy to visit them, but like all families we struggle sometimes, we’re not all happy all the time. This is life, and this year there might have been a few more stresses than in preceding years.
My mother, who is now in her 70’s, drove me to the train station on Thursday morning and we pretty much bickered the entire way. It’s my mother’s custom to always come in to the train station or airport, to always watch to make sure that her charge was safely on their way. We were both frustrated and angry on this day, and I didn’t want her to come into the train station with me and I told her so. We argued about this, too, both sighed and I exited the car with a bad taste in my mouth and too much luggage in my hands. It was busy, I was late and things proceeded along in a kind of joyless, Soviet manner.
When I got to my seat on the train I just closed my eyes and breathed, trying to find that centre that assures you of your own decency. Just as the train began to move I opened my eyes and looked out the window, only to see my mother standing inside the train station and staring out the window, her hand guarding her eyes from the sunlight streaming in, searching for me.
My mother, always looking out for me.
My family, always looking out for me, regardless of the situation.
It was a beautiful and unexpected moment, a holy reminder of the love that often goes unseen.