What is the opposite of a kiss?
Saturday, September 11, 2010
Tuesday, May 4, 2010
citysong
have you ever heard the wolf cry to the blue corn moon? i haven't. nor have i ever been awakened by a crowing cock at the crack of dawn or listened quietly to the wind whispering through the willows.
i have, on the other hand, been subjected to four letter words flung angrily from passing cars, woken to the crack of gunshots at 2 a.m. and listened impatiently to the clamoring of the L train rolling through my neighborhood.
the unceasing sounds of the city serve as ever present reminders of the inexhaustible force of life coursing through every street, skyscraper and subway tunnel. these same sounds, over time, have become meaningless white noise that i tune out, thereby ceasing to acknowledge the humanity that surrounds me. i plug my ears with headphones to block out the din and have in turn come to ignore the quiet cries for help all around me.
the homeless man on the corner is just a soundless simulacrum on the sidewalk, the bag lady in the park the star of a silent film. the raffish middle schoolers smoking cigarettes behind the school no longer elicit even a shake of my head, but instead have become an accepted part of the moving scenery.
i long to escape this cacophonous conurbation, not with permanence, but simply for a time, to find proper perspective and ultimately to regain an amplified awareness of each note in the city's ceaseless song.
i have, on the other hand, been subjected to four letter words flung angrily from passing cars, woken to the crack of gunshots at 2 a.m. and listened impatiently to the clamoring of the L train rolling through my neighborhood.
the unceasing sounds of the city serve as ever present reminders of the inexhaustible force of life coursing through every street, skyscraper and subway tunnel. these same sounds, over time, have become meaningless white noise that i tune out, thereby ceasing to acknowledge the humanity that surrounds me. i plug my ears with headphones to block out the din and have in turn come to ignore the quiet cries for help all around me.
the homeless man on the corner is just a soundless simulacrum on the sidewalk, the bag lady in the park the star of a silent film. the raffish middle schoolers smoking cigarettes behind the school no longer elicit even a shake of my head, but instead have become an accepted part of the moving scenery.
i long to escape this cacophonous conurbation, not with permanence, but simply for a time, to find proper perspective and ultimately to regain an amplified awareness of each note in the city's ceaseless song.
Thursday, April 29, 2010
a sound and a silence
There was a time when I used to hear it. It was promising, hopeful, bright and sunshiny, and I heard it all the time. But not anymore. Something happened. I moved. Opportunities came and went. Relationships and interests faded out. Now there's just a profound silence, a deep stillness and I can't tell if it's peace or deadness, if everything's right or if everything's wrong and I just can't distinguish the two any longer.
Sometimes I think I hear it, every now and then, in the morning or for a day or two. But I'm not really sure. I make things up sometimes. It could just be that I want to hear it, and so I start thinking that I do. You can do that, you know; if you want something bad enough, you can trick yourself into thinking that you actually have it. But you don't. I'm not sure if that's an ingenious coping mechanism, or just sad.
Anyway, like I said, sometimes I think I hear it again, and it still has the same sweetness, the rapturous melody of a sparkling future. I get lost in it. But it's not a passive lostness, rather, it drives me to action. I'm on steroids when I hear it. It oils the gears in my head and my confidence swells, not in arrogance, but simply because hearing it makes confidence inevitable. You know, if you've heard it.
I haven't heard it much lately, but that's ok. Either you hear it or you don't. I suspect some people never hear it at all. And the silence isn't that bad, really. You get used to it. You can get used to anything. The silence isn't very exciting, but it does seem safe.
I wonder sometimes, though, where it went. I don't even remember when it left. It was just gone, like it got up in the middle of the night and snuck out in stocking feet. I've searched for it. I've tried different settings and listening postures. I've done the dance. It's pretty elusive, though, when it wants to be.
So I don't really look anymore. I've come to terms with my subpar aural detective skills. I have better things to do. At least, that's what I tell myself. And I'm not worried. It'll come back, I'm sure. I can't remember why I know that, maybe it told me as I slept, before it tiptoed away; and it'll probably come back sometime I don't expect, like on a windy day with lots of dead leaves, taking me off guard, but I won't be surprised. Hope does that, it makes surprise unsurprising, but it doesn't ruin the surprise. So I look forward to it...
Sometimes I think I hear it, every now and then, in the morning or for a day or two. But I'm not really sure. I make things up sometimes. It could just be that I want to hear it, and so I start thinking that I do. You can do that, you know; if you want something bad enough, you can trick yourself into thinking that you actually have it. But you don't. I'm not sure if that's an ingenious coping mechanism, or just sad.
Anyway, like I said, sometimes I think I hear it again, and it still has the same sweetness, the rapturous melody of a sparkling future. I get lost in it. But it's not a passive lostness, rather, it drives me to action. I'm on steroids when I hear it. It oils the gears in my head and my confidence swells, not in arrogance, but simply because hearing it makes confidence inevitable. You know, if you've heard it.
I haven't heard it much lately, but that's ok. Either you hear it or you don't. I suspect some people never hear it at all. And the silence isn't that bad, really. You get used to it. You can get used to anything. The silence isn't very exciting, but it does seem safe.
I wonder sometimes, though, where it went. I don't even remember when it left. It was just gone, like it got up in the middle of the night and snuck out in stocking feet. I've searched for it. I've tried different settings and listening postures. I've done the dance. It's pretty elusive, though, when it wants to be.
So I don't really look anymore. I've come to terms with my subpar aural detective skills. I have better things to do. At least, that's what I tell myself. And I'm not worried. It'll come back, I'm sure. I can't remember why I know that, maybe it told me as I slept, before it tiptoed away; and it'll probably come back sometime I don't expect, like on a windy day with lots of dead leaves, taking me off guard, but I won't be surprised. Hope does that, it makes surprise unsurprising, but it doesn't ruin the surprise. So I look forward to it...
Wednesday, April 14, 2010
Sunday, April 11, 2010
Shawty Wanna Thug
Tommy pops the collar of his pale pink Abercrombie polo, then carefully resituates two of the foremost locks in his meticulously groomed mane. He steps back to admire his work in one of two full length mirrors on his bedroom wall. As he is stunning the room with his best Blue Steel, his iPhone raucously blares the first four lines of 'Straight Outta Compton'. He picks it up and finds the text message "wer u @ yo?" in the center of the screen. Tommy pockets the phone and does a final mirror check before turning to his dresser for a healthy, three dollar splash of Acqua di Gio. He then grabs his bag, bolts down the stairs, almost sprinting for the front door and completely ignoring the voice calling his name from the kitchen. Once outside, he immediately slows his pace to a casual saunter, making his way toward the slate gray Porche parked at the curb. As he nears the vehicle, the passenger side window slides down to reveal his best friend Paul sporting a sideways Yankees cap and bobbing his head to the high decibel sounds of 'Party in the USA', over which Paul can barely be heard yelling, "What up, T-bone?" while throwing a sideways peace sign. Tommy opens the back passenger side door, throws his bag on the seat and climbs into the vehicle. On the way to their destination, they stop at a Starbucks to grab a couple of over sweetened coffee drinks with which to kick off the day. Their travel conversation consists primarily of incomprehensible slang, seemingly quoted at random from 'Malibu's Most Wanted'. When they arrive at their destination, they notice almost everyone has already gone inside, so they down their coffee, grab their bags and run toward the building, hoping that they aren't late. Just as they reach the large double doors, though, they hear the bell ring twice, signaling that they are in fact tardy for their very first day in the fifth grade at Harding Elementary School.
Monday, April 5, 2010
The Invisible Man
Growing up, I was always the pale, lanky kid who carried an inhaler and had terrible acne. I was a stereotypical anti-social “brain” living in Bellafonte, Pennsylvania, a town of roughly 7,000 people just north of State College. Both of my parents were research scientists at Penn State. It’s that traditional story of the parents who were more invested in their work than their son, thus forcing the child to overcompensate in an effort to get their attention by getting straight A’s and winning every academic competition possible. Needless to say, I wasn’t the type of kid people would look at and think, “Wow, he’s going to be a superhero someday.” But, here I am with this mask, in these tights, dodging bullets from some idiot who thought it’d be a good idea to threaten to blow up New York City.
This was not my first choice for a profession. In fact, I’m fairly certain it wasn’t my choice at all. This isn't me. So, who is this person and where did he come from? The media was fed some crazy back story about me being in a lab in Penn State when an explosion occurred, thus giving me incredible strength. Others talk about how I studied for five years in Tibet learning ancient arts and centering myself or how I’m really from another planet and came down to Earth a superior being. The truth is far less glamorous than all of that. I bought a leotard, made myself a mask and started working out. Most of what you hear about me is exaggeration or flat out lies. Sure, I’ve beaten up a few bad guys, but no more than your typical cop. I’m just flashier. The glitz blinds people from the reality. The more Thunderman is the in spotlight, the easier Joseph can fade into the background and hide. The more people believe in Thunderman, the less Joseph needs to exist.
Yea, the world thinks I’m super. And, maybe I am. But, honestly, I’m still just that pale lanky kid from small town Pennsylvania. I’m Joseph Maloney, not Thunderman. It’s crazy what a mask can do to us. What it can make us become. How easily it can hide us. Once I gave up on my parents loving me, my dream was to fade into obscurity.
So, no, I didn't choose this profession. It's just a means to an end.
As the saying goes, "Have no fear, Thunderman is here!" And Joseph is far from sight.
This was not my first choice for a profession. In fact, I’m fairly certain it wasn’t my choice at all. This isn't me. So, who is this person and where did he come from? The media was fed some crazy back story about me being in a lab in Penn State when an explosion occurred, thus giving me incredible strength. Others talk about how I studied for five years in Tibet learning ancient arts and centering myself or how I’m really from another planet and came down to Earth a superior being. The truth is far less glamorous than all of that. I bought a leotard, made myself a mask and started working out. Most of what you hear about me is exaggeration or flat out lies. Sure, I’ve beaten up a few bad guys, but no more than your typical cop. I’m just flashier. The glitz blinds people from the reality. The more Thunderman is the in spotlight, the easier Joseph can fade into the background and hide. The more people believe in Thunderman, the less Joseph needs to exist.
Yea, the world thinks I’m super. And, maybe I am. But, honestly, I’m still just that pale lanky kid from small town Pennsylvania. I’m Joseph Maloney, not Thunderman. It’s crazy what a mask can do to us. What it can make us become. How easily it can hide us. Once I gave up on my parents loving me, my dream was to fade into obscurity.
So, no, I didn't choose this profession. It's just a means to an end.
As the saying goes, "Have no fear, Thunderman is here!" And Joseph is far from sight.
Tuesday, March 30, 2010
Developmental Theory of Pretending
Psychology (and common sense, but who uses that anymore) tells us that different stages in life lend themselves to different stages of mind. That is to say, we come to think differently as we age. This is true for pretending, and here I propose the beginnings of a basic developmental model.
(I have not thoroughly researched this topic, and rest my conclusions heavily on personal experience and the less-than-random sampling of people whom I observe or am acquainted with (you can get away with that in the soft sciences, right?)).
Pretending, for our purposes, can be defined as thinking or acting in accordance with an intentionally imagined reality. Not all pretending is the same, however, as is evident when observing both children and adults.
As infants... well, actually, I don't know much about infants, and I can't remember that far back, so let's just skip to slightly older children. Kids, then, tend to engage in a lot of active pretending, for example when I used to tromp through the woods as an explorer, or have a certain shirt that turned me into a superhero. Or the people I knew whose child was always pretending to be a cat. Here the pretender typically engages in the imagined role for its own sake.
Later in life, this type of pretending becomes less common, as people tend to move from active, imagination-based pretending to more passive, others-focused pretending. This is evident in dress, mannerisms, hairstyles, and so on, as people pretend to be rich, pretend to be poor, try to stand out, or try to fit in. The pretender still participates in the pretense, but largely for the sake of influencing others.
Of course, there is overlap between the two types of pretending, and well-adjusted, genuine individuals might not ever heavily depend on the second type. That's just the general trend I see. And me, I'm trying not to let my imagination become strictly defensive.
(I have not thoroughly researched this topic, and rest my conclusions heavily on personal experience and the less-than-random sampling of people whom I observe or am acquainted with (you can get away with that in the soft sciences, right?)).
Pretending, for our purposes, can be defined as thinking or acting in accordance with an intentionally imagined reality. Not all pretending is the same, however, as is evident when observing both children and adults.
As infants... well, actually, I don't know much about infants, and I can't remember that far back, so let's just skip to slightly older children. Kids, then, tend to engage in a lot of active pretending, for example when I used to tromp through the woods as an explorer, or have a certain shirt that turned me into a superhero. Or the people I knew whose child was always pretending to be a cat. Here the pretender typically engages in the imagined role for its own sake.
Later in life, this type of pretending becomes less common, as people tend to move from active, imagination-based pretending to more passive, others-focused pretending. This is evident in dress, mannerisms, hairstyles, and so on, as people pretend to be rich, pretend to be poor, try to stand out, or try to fit in. The pretender still participates in the pretense, but largely for the sake of influencing others.
Of course, there is overlap between the two types of pretending, and well-adjusted, genuine individuals might not ever heavily depend on the second type. That's just the general trend I see. And me, I'm trying not to let my imagination become strictly defensive.
Monday, March 22, 2010
Artificial Representation
Artificial Representation
“Over the mountains and the sea, Your river runs with love for me and I will open up my heart and let the healer set me free”
I hear these words stream out of my mouth in a sort of apathetic monotone. I’m not even comprehending what I’m singing. The switch was turned to ‘on’ and my vocal chords began vibrating in a systematic, pre-programmed manner, thus churning out words that my mouth allowed to depart my body. Each syllable is pronounced, leading directly into the next without any need for thought or comprehension. My heart, mind and soul are uninvolved in this process. This is solely a noise game and the bare necessity of organs are on it. There’s no need to bother the rest of my body. This one is covered.
“I’m happy to be in the truth and I will daily lift my hands, for I will always sing of when Your love came down.”
I look around. Some seem so devout about this. You can see in their faces that they are truly buying into it all. When I see these people, I struggle between judgment and envy. The woman just to my left appears to believe, truly believe in the words we’re all singing together. Her eyes are closed tightly, her hands are outstretched and with each word that drips off of her lips, she seems to become more entrenched in excitement and joy. She is smiling genuinely. She is flush with color. She exudes a passionate investment in each individual syllable she’s singing. She turns upward and her smile continues to grow as though this single second, this very moment, is the most important and uplifting single time of her entire existence. I find myself hating her. I hate myself. I envy her.
“I could sing of your love forever. I could sing of your love forever.”
I can’t help but ask myself why I’m here still. Expectation? Fear of loneliness? Habit? What would happen if I just stopped coming? Would I be missing anything? These people in this room all think they know me, but few of them have any idea of who I truly am. Of what I’m truly capable of. Sure, they would all miss me at first. Then my absence would become extended and questions of concern would soon turn into statements of judgment. Someone would reach out to me and attempt to save me. They would call and pray and act sincerely interested in where I stand on my journey. I know this script. I’ve used it myself on many friends before. I would call them, we’d do coffee, I would express concern. Lather. Rinse. Repeat.
“I could sing of your love forever. I could sing of your love forever.”
I am a Christian by proximity and convenience. I do not believe. But, I do feel pain. I am a fake. I don’t know how much longer I can do this.
Yet, still, it continues.
“Over the mountains and the sea, Your river runs with love for me and I will open up my heart and let the healer set me free”
I hear these words stream out of my mouth in a sort of apathetic monotone. I’m not even comprehending what I’m singing. The switch was turned to ‘on’ and my vocal chords began vibrating in a systematic, pre-programmed manner, thus churning out words that my mouth allowed to depart my body. Each syllable is pronounced, leading directly into the next without any need for thought or comprehension. My heart, mind and soul are uninvolved in this process. This is solely a noise game and the bare necessity of organs are on it. There’s no need to bother the rest of my body. This one is covered.
“I’m happy to be in the truth and I will daily lift my hands, for I will always sing of when Your love came down.”
I look around. Some seem so devout about this. You can see in their faces that they are truly buying into it all. When I see these people, I struggle between judgment and envy. The woman just to my left appears to believe, truly believe in the words we’re all singing together. Her eyes are closed tightly, her hands are outstretched and with each word that drips off of her lips, she seems to become more entrenched in excitement and joy. She is smiling genuinely. She is flush with color. She exudes a passionate investment in each individual syllable she’s singing. She turns upward and her smile continues to grow as though this single second, this very moment, is the most important and uplifting single time of her entire existence. I find myself hating her. I hate myself. I envy her.
“I could sing of your love forever. I could sing of your love forever.”
I can’t help but ask myself why I’m here still. Expectation? Fear of loneliness? Habit? What would happen if I just stopped coming? Would I be missing anything? These people in this room all think they know me, but few of them have any idea of who I truly am. Of what I’m truly capable of. Sure, they would all miss me at first. Then my absence would become extended and questions of concern would soon turn into statements of judgment. Someone would reach out to me and attempt to save me. They would call and pray and act sincerely interested in where I stand on my journey. I know this script. I’ve used it myself on many friends before. I would call them, we’d do coffee, I would express concern. Lather. Rinse. Repeat.
“I could sing of your love forever. I could sing of your love forever.”
I am a Christian by proximity and convenience. I do not believe. But, I do feel pain. I am a fake. I don’t know how much longer I can do this.
Yet, still, it continues.
Sunday, March 21, 2010
Seventeen
This year, for the seventeenth year, Gabriel will be Santa Claus.
Year one began as a bit of a joke, really- a gentle jab in the form of a shopping mall Santa application he found folded neatly under his electric razor. His laughter had shaken white whisker refugees from the corners of the page and sent them sprinkling like incriminating snowflakes onto Chelsea's slippers as she wrapped herself around him from behind. "It's only that you'd be so convincing," she had whispered. He applied the following week, two days after their 37th wedding anniversary, still hopelessly unable to tell her no.
By year three, the job had started to grow on him. Getting him hoisted and strapped into that sauna of a red suit had become a ritual of sorts. Chelsea would stand ready on the end of the bed, dwarfed by the red poly-velvet coat, and the two of them would struggle to work his considerable self into character, cursing all the while the row of shiny black buttons that couldn't actually unfasten. Her eyes were incredibly bright that last good year, and she would watch him playfully as he adjusted his hat just so. She would never let him kiss her once that hat was on - something about an affront to the very essence of childhood. He would have given every moment of his childhood for a half a minute of her smile.
He was at the hospital for most of year five, but she insisted he not miss the season. Leaving her there, tubes snaking around her like cage wires, felt like a betrayal. He stopped by her room the first night of the run fully suited, a bouquet of poinsettias in his white-gloved hand. She was sleeping soundly for the first time in what must have been weeks, and he could not bring himself to wake her. That year, the fifth year, was the first that she wasn't sitting on the bench across the atrium, reading and laughing, waving and watching. In year five, he began to understand how much he was going to have to miss her.
Year six read like an obituary column. Loving wife, mother, sister, leaves behind grieving widower who will honor her by donning a suit and masquerading as joy in a shopping mall. He will hear nothing, see nothing, smell nothing, feel nothing. The children will love him, but he will not be moved. Instead, he will sit numbly and wonder how it is that the world has continued, that time has failed to stop completely. No one will be able to give him an answer that makes any sense.
In year nine, Leslie and Tom moved the grandkids back to Boston to be closer to their PaPa. Leslie got in the habit of bringing the girls by every Saturday morning and cooking breakfast for him on the stove that had been accumulating dust and memory in equal parts since Chelsea had first been hospitalized. Gabriel made a big show of leaving the heavy black boots by the chimney, claiming he'd won them from a now barefoot Santa in a bet. The house was better for every small moment of laughter, warmer, more tolerable.
He took a lover in year twelve, nine years his junior, with the memory of red still alive in the ends of her hair. They made love exactly four times. On the fourth night, she shifted in her sleep and made a sound that was so like his wife he forgot for a moment that she was a stranger. Reality hit with a force strong enough to drive him out the door, into the car, and back home to sit quietly and alone. He saw her again once, sitting on Chelsea's bench across the atrium, watching him with child after child. He pretended not to notice her, and when he looked up a second time, she was gone.
Year fourteen they hired a kid from New Jersey with the shiftiest eyes Gabriel had seen. On his break, Gabriel would watch the kid slink in and out of the mall store fronts, pocketing small items - a book here, a tube of lipstick, a pair of sunglasses. He could never quite bring himself to turn the kid in, though the kid regarded him with that specific breed of disgust the young reserve for anyone who reminds them that they too may one day be aging, and alone. When some eager Santa visitor made a selfish or impossible request, the kid would make a strange, disapproving sound that reminded Gabriel of the coyotes he and Chelsea would listen to in the evenings the summer he found work in San Antonio. She had loved the hauntingly sad conversations those dogs would have. He found them disturbing, and she laughed every time he jumped.
Gabriel almost didn't sign up the sixteenth year, but in the third week of October he found an old Polaroid tucked into the pages of one of Chelsea's mangled novels. In it, his wife perched gracefully on his knee, a little lighter and less tangible than she should have been. Year four. His beard had been especially long that year, and the kids were relentless with their questions and their tugging. Chelsea had begun to fade early that November, and by Thanksgiving they had a diagnosis and the weight of precious little time. She had shown up anyway, dressed in her best holiday sweater and smiling from ear to ear, to watch him interview child after child, afternoon after afternoon. He tucked the photo back between the pages and went straight to the car, the mall, and the rented red suit that, once upon a time, her hands had touched.
This year, for the seventeenth year, Gabriel will be Santa Claus.
Year one began as a bit of a joke, really- a gentle jab in the form of a shopping mall Santa application he found folded neatly under his electric razor. His laughter had shaken white whisker refugees from the corners of the page and sent them sprinkling like incriminating snowflakes onto Chelsea's slippers as she wrapped herself around him from behind. "It's only that you'd be so convincing," she had whispered. He applied the following week, two days after their 37th wedding anniversary, still hopelessly unable to tell her no.
By year three, the job had started to grow on him. Getting him hoisted and strapped into that sauna of a red suit had become a ritual of sorts. Chelsea would stand ready on the end of the bed, dwarfed by the red poly-velvet coat, and the two of them would struggle to work his considerable self into character, cursing all the while the row of shiny black buttons that couldn't actually unfasten. Her eyes were incredibly bright that last good year, and she would watch him playfully as he adjusted his hat just so. She would never let him kiss her once that hat was on - something about an affront to the very essence of childhood. He would have given every moment of his childhood for a half a minute of her smile.
He was at the hospital for most of year five, but she insisted he not miss the season. Leaving her there, tubes snaking around her like cage wires, felt like a betrayal. He stopped by her room the first night of the run fully suited, a bouquet of poinsettias in his white-gloved hand. She was sleeping soundly for the first time in what must have been weeks, and he could not bring himself to wake her. That year, the fifth year, was the first that she wasn't sitting on the bench across the atrium, reading and laughing, waving and watching. In year five, he began to understand how much he was going to have to miss her.
Year six read like an obituary column. Loving wife, mother, sister, leaves behind grieving widower who will honor her by donning a suit and masquerading as joy in a shopping mall. He will hear nothing, see nothing, smell nothing, feel nothing. The children will love him, but he will not be moved. Instead, he will sit numbly and wonder how it is that the world has continued, that time has failed to stop completely. No one will be able to give him an answer that makes any sense.
In year nine, Leslie and Tom moved the grandkids back to Boston to be closer to their PaPa. Leslie got in the habit of bringing the girls by every Saturday morning and cooking breakfast for him on the stove that had been accumulating dust and memory in equal parts since Chelsea had first been hospitalized. Gabriel made a big show of leaving the heavy black boots by the chimney, claiming he'd won them from a now barefoot Santa in a bet. The house was better for every small moment of laughter, warmer, more tolerable.
He took a lover in year twelve, nine years his junior, with the memory of red still alive in the ends of her hair. They made love exactly four times. On the fourth night, she shifted in her sleep and made a sound that was so like his wife he forgot for a moment that she was a stranger. Reality hit with a force strong enough to drive him out the door, into the car, and back home to sit quietly and alone. He saw her again once, sitting on Chelsea's bench across the atrium, watching him with child after child. He pretended not to notice her, and when he looked up a second time, she was gone.
Year fourteen they hired a kid from New Jersey with the shiftiest eyes Gabriel had seen. On his break, Gabriel would watch the kid slink in and out of the mall store fronts, pocketing small items - a book here, a tube of lipstick, a pair of sunglasses. He could never quite bring himself to turn the kid in, though the kid regarded him with that specific breed of disgust the young reserve for anyone who reminds them that they too may one day be aging, and alone. When some eager Santa visitor made a selfish or impossible request, the kid would make a strange, disapproving sound that reminded Gabriel of the coyotes he and Chelsea would listen to in the evenings the summer he found work in San Antonio. She had loved the hauntingly sad conversations those dogs would have. He found them disturbing, and she laughed every time he jumped.
Gabriel almost didn't sign up the sixteenth year, but in the third week of October he found an old Polaroid tucked into the pages of one of Chelsea's mangled novels. In it, his wife perched gracefully on his knee, a little lighter and less tangible than she should have been. Year four. His beard had been especially long that year, and the kids were relentless with their questions and their tugging. Chelsea had begun to fade early that November, and by Thanksgiving they had a diagnosis and the weight of precious little time. She had shown up anyway, dressed in her best holiday sweater and smiling from ear to ear, to watch him interview child after child, afternoon after afternoon. He tucked the photo back between the pages and went straight to the car, the mall, and the rented red suit that, once upon a time, her hands had touched.
This year, for the seventeenth year, Gabriel will be Santa Claus.
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