It was a tough ask each
year. The ritual was typical; I would pick
up a shirt for my father and a blouse for my
mother for Christmas. Then I would drive
from my house to theirs in Brooklyn. It
wasn’t too much of a drive from Manhattan
but I hated it. It wasn’t the event that I
hated but the drive in the chill.
This time around my dad
had been suffering from some ailments and
had been in and out of the hospital
throughout the year. I was not able to make
it for his birthday in November and not even
for his knee surgery in October. These were
some times when I knew they expected me to
be there but I hadn’t been. I had been a bad
son and I was determined to make amends. So
there I was, on Fifth Avenue, window
shopping. I was going to change the
customary gifts and make them something
special this time.
It had been an hour since
I had arrived with a huge wad of money and
my set of credit cards stuffed in my coat
but hadn’t managed to pick up anything for
my father. I liked a nice violin that I knew
mom would love, being the musically inclined
that she was. I was getting it delivered at
Christmas. But the real problem was my
father’s gift. He was sensitive and going by
the year he had had, there was even more
reason to be emotional. I knew this might be
the last Christmas my mom and I might have
with him.
Going by these thoughts,
I had a memory flash. I was recalling some
childhood days as I passed ‘Toys R us’.
There was a Santa Claus standing and
entertaining kids and his fat belly reminded
me of dad in my kiddie days. He would often
dress up in a Santa suit and team up the hat
and thrill me with gifts and the whole
Christmas theme. I enjoyed it to the core
but as I grew up I soon figured it out that
Santa as fictitious and it was my dad in the
Santa hat. Even my dad thinned down for the
Santa suit and we settled for a calmer
Christmas sharing each others memories of
the year.
That was when I rushed to
pick up my father present. There was nothing
stopping me now. Days passed and on
Christmas Eve I found myself driving to
Brooklyn to meet my folks. They were
obviously ecstatic to see me. On Christmas
morning we all woke up to open our presents.
Every year my parents
waited to open theirs till I had opened
mine. This time I wanted them to open theirs
first. Dad was the first one to open it.
‘There are two of them”, he exclaimed. The
first, of course was the customary shirt.
But it was the second that brought tears to
his eyes. It was the same Santa hat he used
to wear to cheer us up on Christmas. I had
dug up the old hat from our cellar and
gifted it to him. We all welled up and it
surely was the most memorable Christmas the
family ever had.
