Yeah, Spider here. Still. I ain’t lookin’ forward to Christmas much, even less than usual. With Res not around, it’s like, what’s the point, you know? Even tho’ I don’t remember much about Christmases with her; we’d start drinkin around noon on Christmas Eve and wouldn’t stop until just ’bout New Year. That part don’t matter. She was there. I remember that.
When I was a kid, Christmas wasn’t a big deal. Sometimes we had a tree. Sometimes we didn’t. Most times there were no presents. None for me, anyway. It’s like those people who make commercials and sing songs and write cards don’t get real life. They build up this dream picture of what should be goin’ on, snow and skating and stuff. For most people snow is never gonna happen. In D.C. it’s pretty damn close to never. They sing ’bout fires (and not the one every year at the crackhouse down the street) and chestnuts, and talk ’bout families hanging together and laughing and singing. For a lot of us, it just ain’t that way. Makes a little guy hate it when December comes. Makes a teenager hate the sight of a tree. Makes a man just want to drink ’til it’s all over.
That’s where she came in. Didn’t try to get me see the error of my ways–even tho’ she dug Christmas up until last year. Didn’t shove stupid hats on my head or bring a tree to my place to set up. She just hung and made it like any other day. I guess by doing that, she made it okay for it to be Christmas.
So, to all you fuckers out there standing around your fires and singing your songs, know you’re lucky. To the rest, the shop’ll be open. Come on in and I’ll give you the present you really want, the one your Mama will hate.
Merry Christmas, Res. I miss you, girl.