Presents are simple.
Santa leaves them under the tree. Morning comes. Even just a brushstroke of sunlight in the sky is permission to dig in. Bows bounce. Wrapping paper tears and lands in crumpled Christmas origami. Boxes relinquish their goods. Thrilled children wade through the obscene bounty, drunk with excitement.
The presents have been opened.
Don’t like a present? Return it. Rewrap it. Regift it. No sweat.
Simple.
Relationships, not so simple.
The first Christmas after a split is devastating. The kids may not know it, especially if their parents make a point of working together to make Christmas Day a good one. We did. But still.
We agreed: I would be Santa and take care of Santa presents. He would bring the gifts from the two of us, in the morning. We were very reasonable. It worked well.
We have spent ten Christmases together, maybe eleven. I do not wish to count. It is enough to call it a decade, seven of those with child or children.
What I wanted most was not under the tree this year: I want to go back to a time when I felt strong, when I felt safe, when I felt I could express love to the man I know the best in the world, and hear love in his voice as well.
I watched his hands as he put together some toys, as he opened the squash he’d brought for dinner, as he hugged the girls. It will always be his hands that get me. My heart does not know where to go, when it sees them.
I don’t think there is such a thing as closure. Presents can be unwrapped and wrapped again. But this—a deep love, a close marriage, two great kids, a tangled mess of communication and miscommunication and anger and hurt and heartbreak that followed—there is no wrapping this back up. Not for me.
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