Merry Christmas

My first memory is a blurred recollection prompted, expanded from, and perhaps invented from an old photograph. I am four. I have long reddish hair, an equistive look on my face, and am wearing a long blue nightgown with lace around the neck. I am pulling a Fisher Price Circus train. There is no one else in the picture nor are there are any signs that it is Christmas. Nor are there any clues as to where I am. I assume it's my grandmother's house because we spent all our Christmases there.

In my memory, unreliable thing that it is, the train is a gift from my dad. But he is not there. It is Christmas Eve. I am upstairs in our apartment above my uncle's apartment. We have a small tree tucked beneath the eaved ceiling. It is a pultry thing, skinny with few branches, and holding only a few ornaments, tons of tinsel, and some lights. At four I don't care though nor does my brother who is only two. There are no presents under our tree. The presents will be at my grandmother's. This year I am concerned that Santa will know where to go but my mom assures me that he knows. Earlier in the month, she helped me write a letter to Santa explaining that we celebreate at my grammies. As my mom packs some clothes for our overnight visit to my grandmothers, she sings carols, badly with the radio. My mom can't carry a tune but she sounds happy.

--Bring these to your Uncle.

She hands me some slender gifts. I go downstairs. Here it does not smell like Christmas but rather it's dank and musty, smellling of old cigarettes and dogs. The hallway bothers me with it's dark paneled walls and twisting corners. I am terrified that I will fall. I make it safely to my Uncle's door, and knock. The door opens to reveal my father!

--Daddy!

Now I know why my mother is happy. I drop the presents and launch myself into his arms. He holds me away from him looking surpised and then embarssed. It is only then that I realize this man is not my father but his brother. Everyone in the room laughts at his discomfort, and I tr hard to not cry. I don't know if I wanted to cry because I am humilated at this mistaek or because it is not my father. I stay for a short bit of time, long enough to get a candy cane, and then I go back to our apartment. But the moment won't go away. It is trade among my family for the whole night and the next day. Everyone laughs, and remarks how much my uncle looks like my father. The story will follow me years later. In fact, it will be told at least once every Christmas.

--Remember the year that Ginger mistook Mark for her father?