My Christmas is befuddled.
The Martin Christmas was in November, all 100 of us, pretending we know each other across our distances.
My own Christmas was spent with him, belonging for twenty-four stolen hours to what could have been but never will.
Now it’s the Yoder Christmas. Our distances are perhaps greater than the Martins, but we deal with them differently. We hide less, laugh more.
Soon my family will have Christmas. A quiet day with a new niece or nephew, a few gifts, and collecting ourselves to smile shyly at each other, loving in our strange, silent way.
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