The Pathos of Things

Sixteen: Our gloved fingers intertwine as he steers me away from the ice patches in our path. The tinsel that shrouds the Christmas tree in the town square gives us a glittering wink as we take our cups of hot cocoa from the vendor with a grateful nod. We sit on the bench in front of Fancy’s Fudge, ignoring splinters digging into the backs of our puffy coats and the peeling green paint that bubbles beneath our jeans. We’re drunk off fumes of chocolate and pine, and from the spirit that lingers in the scene around us, laughing families window-shopping for last-minute gifts. We wave at the occasional classmate who passes by, all of us armed with the exhilarating knowledge that the next ten days will be free from math class and SAT prep and popularity hierarchies.

We slurp our last dregs. The restaurant across the street is illuminated with string lights and we watch waitresses hand out salads and steaks through the window like it’s a television rerun of a holiday classic. Albie’s arm hangs heavy over my shoulder as he tells me how hard it will be to spend the first Christmas without his father. It was his favorite holiday, he says. Albie hopes it will snow, wants to believe that each individual flake is a handcrafted talisman from his guardian both in life and from death. If the ground is blanketed in white, if it mirrors the clouds overhead, he can pretend for a moment that they are in the same place once again.