I Hate Christmas

I’ve been wanting to write this for a long time and for a long time I’ve never wanted to write this. It’s late November, I’m sitting in Launceston Airport on the island of Tasmania, what some could consider the ends of the earth, the next stop south from here is Antarctica this creates within me a sense of isolation. It’s the end of a work trip and as I sit here typing, there is a group of people sitting on the table in front of me the majority being I believe in their 20’s with the exception of who I assume is a mother of one. I can only imagine they are off on a group adventure and I must admit I feel some jealousy, they are oblivious to the trials of life and can innocently experience things for the first time.  As their flight is called mother hugs her boy tightly and as much as she wants to send him off with a smile the fragility is obvious to us worn and weathered souls, as she says, “I’ll see you after Christmas”.

 O Fuck! Christmas already, fuck I hate Christmas.

 I have a little laugh to myself at the irony, I once played Bob Cratchit in an amateur production of ‘A Christmas Carol’ and here I am in real life Scrooge. I too am haunted by my very own ghost that seems to appear at this time of year.

 I come from a long line of Michaels who I’ve tranced back to the Tyrone region of Northern Ireland.  Recently, Vickie and I had the chance to go to Ireland and thanks to my cousins Kate, Helena and Colm I was able to visit the grave of the first Michael and as macabre as this might sound, I loved it.  Some people refrain from naming their off spring after themselves, I was not one of those.  As far back as I can remember my dad instilled in me the heritage of my name and my dream was to have my own little Michael to continue the line.  Vickie and I would joke, saying our children would be ‘little dumplings’, as we have always struggled with our weight.  Girls names we could never agree on, but it went without saying what name our boy would have.  Many years ago, a friend once told me that he’d never name his son after him as he wanted his boy to have his own identity and although it didn’t deflect me, it did give me food for thought. It wasn’t identity that I would be giving our son, my personality is nothing like my dad’s, I would be giving him heritage, something to belong to.

 We just like the rest of the childless community grieve for the loss of not having their children, these children live in their dreams and they will never leave us. This Christmas and every Christmas I sense the ghost of our son Michael. And every year I wish I could tell him this.

My dearest Michael

 Every Christmas morning as we gather together as a family and I see the excitement on your cousins faces, I imagine yours as you unwrap your microscope or your chemistry set.  Your mum would spoil you, she got nothing for Christmas as a child and through you she’d try to put things right.  But don’t worry I’d make sure you got all the good boy’s toys and I looked forward to lots of hours on the floor with the Lego.

Your early years, I imagine would have been just a haze of poo, vomit, nappy’s and sleeplessness, mind you, if you had the majority of my genes, you would have been as good as gold as your grandmother always said that about me.

 Your mum and I would have had quite a few arguments about you when you were young, as we both had very different early years.  I’d be wanting you to get outside and explore your world as soon as you could, just like I did. Where as your mum would want you close because you would have been the most precious thing she had and she’d want to keep you close just like her mother did to her, I was prepared to take second place for you my boy.  To your mothers horror, I’d encourage you to climb a tree, walk through muddy water or dig a hole.  I’d get you a bicycle as soon as you could stay up right, because I know this simple machine would allow you to expand your horizons and have more richer adventures with your friends.

 I’d have taken you camping, just you and I, I’d show you how to light a fire, how to respect your world and introduce you to sleeping under the stars. I’d share with you the story of how I introduced your mum to this, by taking her camping purposely not bringing a tent.  I’d show you how to cook on that fire and as we sat around like all those centuries before us did, we’d share stories, we would bond, and I’d hope you feel proud to be the next Michael.

 I wanted you to be proud of me.

 As you aged, I wanted to teach you that sensitivity would not make you a lesser man but make you a better one.  I wanted to watch you experience the results of your decisions, knowing that if you make a wrong one, I’d support you as you figured out the remedy.

 I wanted to help you become a better man that I, I wanted to show you the strength in being able to talk.  I always see this as you coming over in the evening after work and we sit in the garden with a drink as you ask for my guidance and me trying my hardest not to tell you what to do.  You mum would always be peeking through the window at us, obviously wanting to know what was being said, but beaming with pride and love to see you and I like this.

 Michael, your ghost is never far away from me and at Christmas you are especially close, and you know what, as my mind makes senses of what I’m writing, I don’t feel so bad now being Scrooge because my hatred of Christmas comes from how much I miss you.

Forever your Dad.