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by Kathryn Silver-Hajo
Our parents argue about everything—like mom’s a vegetarian, but dad insists on bringing home a brisket or chicken livers from his butcher shop every night and she wants to invest their tiny savings in Polaroid and IBM to grow their little nest egg, but he says federal bonds are safer and why take risks (think of the twins’ future, Britt!), not to mention when she throws the living-room curtains open for some light, he lion-roars that he doesn’t want their nosy neighbors gawping at us (as if they care!)
Worst of all is the holidays because dad’s an atheist and mom’s Lutheran by birth but pagan by design, she says. Two weeks before Christmas, she wanted to decorate a tree with nuts and pine cones, light real candles in the clip-on holders that were her mom’s, cuz the pine-and-beeswax scents make her nostalgic, but dad freaked out, said her quaint Swedish custom would set the house ablaze one day, plus he’s Jewish, well not really, he added, but damned if I’ll celebrate this unholy hazard of a holiday anyway!
We’re the only kids in third grade who hate this season because of the pandemonium (we love the word though) in our already meshugenah household (we love that one too), so Christmas Eve we’re hanging out in the finished basement on the mod tangerine pull-out couch, watching the forbidden Three Stooges, which both mom and dad call gratuitously violent—even though they themselves are always flinging word-arrows at each other like reckless, insensitive, no fun and oy vey am I done with this drek so we’re taking bets if they’ll be getting a divorce.
But suddenly the house goes silent except for Santa Baby oozing through the cracks in the ceiling and I poke Ralph ’s ribs, say, what if they killed each other and he whines, or ran off and left us all alone with no extra-ricotta lasagna or almond cake for our Yuletide dinner. We hold our breaths and each other’s hands, tiptoe upstairs into the living room and omigod see mom and dad lying next to the fireplace that’s all glowing, snapping, smoking logs, stockings and socks all over the place, and them giggling and whispering like they’re best buddies and the candle flames on the tree are bouncing and swaying along with them like they’re all in on some big secret we just don’t get.
Kathryn Silver-Hajo’s work was selected for the Wigleaf Top 50 Longlist, nominated for BOTN, Pushcart, Best Microfiction, Best Small Fictions, Best American Food Writing and is widely published. Books include flash collection, Wolfsong, and novel, Roots of The Banyan Tree.
