Happy Holidays

Off to Chicago tomorrow. Ready to endure the security delays, the crowded flight, the throngs of family all broken into bite-sized pieces over numerous homes, the endless food, the off-putting sensation of being in a foreign bed, the subtle differences of American culture between Chicago and Seattle, the complete lack of moisture in the air, the rituals, the usual faces, the red and green and the ornaments and lights, the crispness of Midwest air, the hints that snow comes over the northern skies, the gray lick on the streets were the salt trucks left their stains, the threadbare trees which look like upraised bony fingers, the quiet broken by the tinny voices from my mom's favorite AM radio hosts, bulky sweaters, darkness at 2 p.m.

Tonight, we pack. Tomorrow, we begin our own tradition of going away. We shall miss our cats. We shall miss our bed. But this is the time for family, and our antisocial ways begin to ebb. Perhaps it is the primal fear of the seasonal darkness, and we must retreat to greater numbers, numbers rich with people we know. Well-decorated caves, with garland and other greenery. My grandmother will be there, presiding in her 88th year, and that's probably the best gift of them all. She's still with us, and we have another holiday together.