I have stood through many winters, but Christmas has always been my favorite season—because that’s when I came alive. I remember the 1970s first, when the walls were young and so were you. Three sisters, one brother, Mom, Dad, and Grandmother—all of you packed inside me like laughter in a gift box waiting to burst open. You didn’t have much, not in the way the world measures things, but my floors never felt poor. They felt rich with excitement. On Christmas Eve you children would run circles around me, whispering plans to catch Santa Claus in the act. I watched you wiggle in your blankets, wide-eyed, too excited to sleep. I could almost feel your heartbeat in the quiet hours before dawn. And then—morning. Daylight barely breaking through the curtains before little footsteps raced across my boards. Stockings filled with candy and fruit, gifts being ripped open, squeals of joy bouncing off my walls. Wrapping paper flying, giggles echoing, the smell of breakfast drifting in from the kitch...
One factual thing about me … I never look at the gas gauge. The only time I think of putting gas in my vehicle is when the gas light and alert goes off. That’s exactly what it’s there for … Just like the alarm clock or timer; a reminder that it’s time to do whatever it is that it needs to be done. When we go somewhere together, my husband is always asking if there’s gas in my car. (He should rightfully ask, knowing that there’s probably not). He’s warned me numerous times that one day it’s gonna happen; one day I’m gonna ride those fumes home and I’m not gonna have enough time to stop and get gas on the way to my next destination. One day. So there I was, on a Saturday afternoon, cruising along, singing at top of lungs, arm out the window, bobbing my head back and forth to some questionable 80s pop, completely oblivious to the fact that my car was running on fumes and good intentions. My destination? The nail parlor, about 12 miles away. Suddenly, I felt a sputt...