I think about widows and widowers who, amidst family gatherings or what remains after decompositions and recompositions, smile and play along. They exchange gifts, sip champagne, devour yule logs, feast on chestnut-stuffed turkey and indulge in foie gras. Yet, in the midst of the noise, they spend the evening in the presence of the absent, for whom, more than any other present that night, death is the painful and lingering presence.
I think about parents who have lost their children, regardless of age, be it to cancer, a car or motorcycle accident, suicide, cardiac arrest, fatal stroke, or aneurysm rupture. Amidst the joyful cries of children or grandchildren, thoughts linger on the last Christmas with the one who is no longer there, whose face, taken by death, continues to haunt the evening of the grieving parent.
I think about those losing a spouse, aware that this Christmas might be their last. Despite the awareness of life's vanity at the doorstep of nothingness, they smile, accept gifts graciously, measuring the extent of life's emptiness. On that night, emptiness comes with its dreadful silence.
I think about families, torn by old resentments, unable to reconcile during the festive season dedicated to the birth of a child who, it is said, grew up to teach love for others and forgiveness. Hate tarnishes those who harbor it.
I think about divorced parents, imposing separate celebrations on their children, depriving them of the joy of being together. Divorce may separate a couple, but it should never disunite the essence that brought children into the world.
I think about in-laws estranged from beloved sons or daughters-in-law, asked by divorcees to abruptly erase those they once welcomed as new family members. Affection is not a commodity.
I think about grandparents deprived of their grandchildren due to divorce, turning them into emotional hostages with no concern for the consequences on their identities. Objectifying individuals leads to learned contempt.
I think about secret lovers, yearning for a Christmas with their hidden loves, dreaming in the shadows while facing the same troubles and pretenses with new blended families. A mended porcelain is still made of broken pieces.
I think about the elderly, realizing that the next year's meal might happen without them, contemplating perhaps their last Christmas on earth with nostalgia for distant childhood festivities. Sometimes, the most present are the absent.
I think about young homosexuals, yet to reveal their truth to their families, awkwardly smiling as relatives inquire about nonexistent partners. Family ties can be a nest of vipers.
I think about those aware that their child's biological parent is not the one they've always known as the father or mother. The complexities of hidden truths within families are the cruelest.
I think about those burdened with other secrets, perhaps a terminal illness, withholding the truth to delay the inevitable grief, lifting their champagne glasses with the knowledge that it might be their last time. True greatness lies in small things.
I think about those left alone, forgotten, abandoned, watching recorded TV shows, sharing a slice of ham with a pet, their phones silent. Some living are already dead.
I think about migrants drawn by the promise of European capitalism, finding themselves in a harsh reality without shelter, table, bread, family, or money. Many dreams lead to hell.
I think about prostitutes who dreamt of a different life, lost in a labyrinth where they sell their bodies to those seeking a cheap escape, facing not only the melancholy and despair that brought them there but also self-disgust and contempt. Combining two miseries doesn't create happiness.
I think about those working in hospitals, police stations, morgues, fire stations, delivering tragic news to other families. Sometimes, the celebration is Thanatos's.
I also think about those working for others' happiness in hotels, airports, train stations, planes, restaurants, cabarets, cinemas, clubs, theaters, and other places where people drown their solitude without looking like it. Solitude compounds with added solitude.
I think about those who, opening their gifts, despise the givers and rush to resell everything online. One doesn't give what they have but what they are.
I think too much... There will also be the laughter of children, fleeting but probably the grace that justifies this anniversary evening of a Jesus who never historically existed but has made so much noise in the history of the West, especially on this Christmas night.
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