The Labyrinth of Solitude

There are specific moments in life when I feel that everything is just right. I suppose everyone does.

I was twenty-six years old. I had settled into a teaching position and was home for Christmas. My Mother and Father and I had Christmas Eve dinner together. My Mom has always been a fantastic cook. Her creativity is allowed to run rampant and she always fails to hold back. That year we had cornish game hen, with wild-rice and hazelnuts, and haricot vert.

Dinner had been cleared away and we were sipping on coffee and Bailey's and my Father said let's go for a ride. And we all agreed it was a terrific plan. So we set-off. Gently falling snow and all. And Johnny Mathis singing in the background. Which reminded me that when I came out to my parents that was my Father's only response. My Mother had three hours of prepared questions. My Father, in all of those three hours, just sat, staring, until he finally said, "You know Johnny Mathis was gay."

We drove north of the city. And came upon a nunnery on the top of a hill. The car climbed; following an ironic beacon of light. When we finally reached the top all we could do was stare, face pressed against frosted glass, steam from your breath adding a soft focus to these enormous plastic figures of Mary, and Joseph, and baby Jesus. All lit up. We sat there and felt small. Somehow it was all so beautiful.

My parents then took me on a tour of all the houses that they had lived in. And stories to go with. We had done this a million times. It always felt fresh.

There was the first house they owned. Where my father had gone away to play ball somewhere in the Midwest for the weekend. My Mother, pregnant, stayed home and chopped down a fifteen foot pine tree that was in front of the house because it was filled with box elder bugs. My Mother's theory was: Get rid of the tree get rid of the bugs. And Dad came home, and was extremely upset, but was so in love that the emotion became endearment.

There was the house where Eloise lived. She was the best gardener I have known. She always gave me a plant when I visited. I treasured these gifts. Once, she gave me a cactus. My grasp was so strong upon leaving that when I tripped getting into the car I didn't let go. We spent hours picking out thorns.

And then we drove by a house where my Mom said, "Do you remember this house where Grandma and Grandpa once lived, Kevin?"

I did not.

"Well, you don't probably remember it because we didn't visit here very often. This is where they lived when Grandma went through shock therapy."

"Um, what?"

"Oh, you remember. Uncle Gary got divorced and it devastated your Grandma. She cried for days. And that was the treatment then. Shock therapy."

And we wonder why she still has a distant look?

And we went to a midnight service. Holding white waxy candles to the sky as we sang Silent Night.

The snow crunched under our feet, I took my Mother's hand while she hummed, and my Dad put on Johnny Mathis, and we enjoyed each other.