The Poinsettia on the Kitchen Table
I arrived at my son’s house at five minutes past six on Christmas Eve, with snow melting off my boots and a sweet potato casserole balanced against my hip. In my other hand I carried a red gift bag heavy with presents for Derek and his wife, and cradled against my chest, wrapped in gold paper the way the woman at the shop had insisted was festive, was a small poinsettia. I remember the exact time because I had checked my watch in the car, worried I was late, worried the roads had made me later than I meant to be. Six o’clock, he had said. Come at six. And I had come at six, because that is the kind of mother I was, the kind who arrives when she is told to arrive, who brings a casserole and gifts and a plant, who does not want to be any trouble.
Their home sat in one of those quiet suburbs outside Columbus where the streets curve gently and every porch is dressed for the season. That night nearly every railing wore a string of white lights, and beside almost every front door someone had tucked a small American flag, and the effect of the whole street was of a place that had decided, collectively and cheerfully, to be warm against the winter. Several cars filled Derek’s driveway and spilled out onto the curb. Through the front window I could see people moving around inside, dark shapes crossing in front of the soft colored glow of the Christmas tree. Someone laughed, a bright peal of it that carried out into the cold. Music was playing, something with bells in it. The windows were golden. It looked warm. It looked like everything I had spent my life trying to give my son. It looked like family.
What happened next changed everything… FULL STORY on the next page.
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