December 24, 1974. The old living room in the ranch house is festooned in red and green. Uncle Fitzhugh has a wreath perched between his horns. (Uncle Fitzhugh was shot on great-grandfather’s orders in 1919. A “pet” buffalo, he had become overly familiar to the point of aggression. His taxidermized head has hung above the fireplace since the final unhappy days of the Wilson Administration, and his glass eyes have witnessed many a Christmas Eve dinner.) There are perhaps twenty-five of us from three generations, at three different tables.
Brilliantly written. I felt ever syllable in my core where I encounter my own broken pieces of Christmases past and present. Thank you for this gift.
Thank you!