Oh, Holy Night

I am sitting on the rough, scratchy wool rug in front of the fireplace, feeling its heat, enveloped by the noisy joy of a large and affectionate family.

My cousins are around me on the floor; aunts and uncles are on sofas, chairs, piano benches, or milling about between the living room and kitchen, while Grandmother is still in the kitchen putting up dishes and food. We are all full of turkey, boiled custard, and fresh coconut cake.

Granddaddy is on his throne, the green stuffed chair, smiling beneficently at his subjects. His contentment suffuses the room, enhancing the laughter and embellishing the glow of the tree. I feel nothing could make him happier than this gathering, this holiday, this family.

The gifts are piled haphazardly under the chosen-from-the-land pine, shaken and tossed back by a dozen pairs of cousin hands. We must wait until they are through in the kitchen. Then we must wait as the gifts are disbursed one by one, opened individually before our rapt attention—which vies for prominence with our childish impatience. Each box then goes around the full circle for closer scrutiny.

We children will toss wrappings wildly at our turn, then wad them up and throw them into the flames, moving back as the fire throws its heat farther into the room. Then we will “slip” out, light our candles, and sing at the north window. This is our gift to them, penniless as we are. We know they will love it, will “oooh” and “aaah” over the loveliness of our young voices.

I look at my grandfather’s white head and kind face. I hear the voices, all talking at once and all distinguished/distinguishable. Uncle Frank’s playful urgency. Aunt Clarice’s rapid inquiry. My daddy’s basso. My Aunt Hazel’s titter. Steve is gossiping. Rebecca is complaining. Carol is talking quietly.

I am sitting in the middle of a pool of love, knowing I can turn in any direction with the same buoyancy.

Nelda Holder is the author of The Thirteenth Juror – Ferguson: A Personal Look at the Grand Jury Transcripts.