I remember my first Christmas in this house. I was back from University, heart still raw from the finalization of my parents divorce where a judge decided, in my absence, that neither parent was legally responsible for 17 year old me, because I was finished high school and at U of L.
I felt as though I had no home and felt even more so when my dad kept shooing all my stuff up and out of site. “The first level has to look professional, my gallery is here.”
 |
| Ornaments he made from last year’s Christmas cards. |
I cried and yelled something incoherent about it not even feeling like Christmas here because it wasn’t comfortable and wasn’t home. (Go teenage hormones. I was good at drama.)
 |
| I like them. |
I don’t remember clearly, but my dad’s response involved getting me to decorate with him for Christmas. I think he may have even put me in charge, much to my little brother’s chagrin.
 |
 |
| The tree gets bigger every year I think. |
 |
| I made this little tree 15 years ago. He still has it. |
It wasn’t much, but it was all we had, so we set about trying to cobble together a family, and a holiday, again out of the mess that remained and the little that he had to work with.
All this time later, let’s just say that Christmas isn’t a sparse event any more at my dad’s house, and we’ve managed to find our way through the hurt to being family again.