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I hate Christmas.
The jarring multicolored lights glaring everywhere,
painting the snow in a cacophony of bad art,
gleaming along golden hair as she smiles at my son.
And he smiles back, my son smiles back at her and I sink into despair.
I hate the assumption that everyone is a faith that celebrates Christmas.
Some of us are other faiths, or no faith at all.
Gods have never been anything but petty around me.
I hate the jingle jangle, bubble gum saccharine piped through every loudspeaker,
inescapable, bragging about their true loves,
None of whom are dead, who died for them, leaving them bereft,
happiness shorn away like an invisible limb
no one can see is missing from your body.
I hate that song.
This Christmas give me your heart;
I won’t throw it away, I promise!
No, I know what to do with Christmas hearts.
Whispering control, squeezing until they break,
shining red dust flowing through my fingers,
a tiny, sparkling crimson waterfall streaming to the ground.
But I don’t do that anymore,
although there is the occasional temptation.
Especially when Snow giggles to Neal,
bouncing him on her lap,
oblivious as Emma’s face freezes.
Not that that bothers me, of course.
I hate her, too, after all.
I hate her irrepressible grin
when she gazes in glowing wonder at the lights of the town square,
her innocent joy as townsfolk smile and wave at her – at her, never me.
I hate how multi-hued lights dance across her face
as she wraps lit strands around tree trunks,
delighting our son,
ruining my elegant ambiance with “fun colors”.
Most of all, I hate the constancy of the loneliness.
Christmas is a time of aching regrets and what-ifs,
of lost loves and burned bridges,
of dinners alone while my son eats with my enemies,
people smiling and laughing,
noone missing me.
Of a perfect house perfectly decorated,
stylish and tasteful,
immaculate and empty
of everyone but me,
eating microwaved leftovers.
My Christmas soundtrack is the echoing
tick,
tick,
tick of the living room clock
in a house as barren as my womb.
No school books where he dropped them.
No red jacket tossed over a chair.
No “Hey Regina! How’re you today?” from a foolish Savior
who cannot take the hint that I do not want her in my life.
Who I worry knows that, “I want you to go,” is a lie
I tell myself when I say it to her.
A lie I choke on as I struggle to breathe
when she looks over my shoulder,
that soft, glorious mane brushing my cheek
as she studies papers on the table,
oblivious to the aching fire she just lit.
A lie betrayed as I stiffen
when she pats my knee,
not because I don’t want her touch.
I do want it, I want it so badly
I flinch to stop myself
from sliding my hand around the back of her neck,
pulling her to me with a growl.
Crushing her lips,
pressing her down to the bench seat,
taking her right there at the table in Granny’s,
her gasping ecstasy a new Christmas melody.
But I would never do that
because,
embarrassingly,
I actually care how she feels,
and she cares how the town perceives her.
I could protect her.
I could take the heat of their disdain,
roll it into a fireball.
But she cares about them
far more than she cares about me.
I am just her son’s other mother
playing wicked stepmother to my own son,
playing like I’m not falling for an unattainable Swan.
So she comes to retrieve our son,
taking him away for a Christmas
not in my home.
She smiles and laughs admiring my tree.
(At least someone admires it.)
I stumble and flush
as I blame the crystal swans on Henry.
She looks at me quietly,
and
there is a moment
hanging in the air;
she drags in a slow breath.
Her eyes simmer,
and…
Henry crashes down the stairs, joyfully bubbling and out of breath.
Emma turns away.
“Head to the car, kid!” and he rushes off.
“Have a Merry Christmas, Emma,” I manage.
The living room clock underscores my words,
relentlessly painting my future in sparse, hollow sound.
She turns back,
studies my face too long.
Whispers, “Come with us, Regina.”
I shake my head.
“I don’t think I’d be very welcome.”
I'd rather be alone in my home
than alone and unwanted amidst them.
She sets her chin in defiance.
“I don’t care. I want you there.”
Her face is a mystery to me
as her eyes search my face,
her gaze full of… no.
I must be losing my mind
to think such impossible things.
(It wouldn’t be the first time.
False hope is my fatal flaw.)
“Why?” I shake my head,
wondering at the spark in her eyes.
Delicately
she lifts a hand,
slides it around my neck,
chilly fingers sparking an inferno
as she presses her lips to mine.
I love Christmas.