—WE DRANK A TOAST TO INNOCENCE, WE DRANK A TOAST TO NOW

 

…That’s my niece, Gracie, attempting to make a snow angel out of confetti. She’s a wonder and, yes, she’s also as darling as she looks.

…I hope your night was memorable and that you spent it with someone you love. I’m guessing you did.

…I’m letting New Year’s linger a tad and will start things anew on Monday. Until then, here are three of my favorite holiday stories from last year:  

Love is the Way My Friends Laugh

I spent the last night of Hanukkah knee-deep in potato peelings with my closest friends. None of them are Jewish, but they were all eager. We ate latkes, passed the Shamash around my dining room table so we could each light a candle on the menorah. Watching my friends take such care with a religion that is not their own evoked an unexpected tenderness. Love is the way my friends laughed as we stood around my kitchen island on my last Hanukkah at home before college, squeezing grated potatoes into patties and sliding them into oiled pans. 

— Rachel Lynch

 

Trusting the Edge

A family holiday card that year would have shown our faces being scratched out: father dead, mother in assisted living, one brother in a coma. I’d just broken up with a dishonest, possibly-cheating-on-me-boyfriend. My brother Gary took me ice-skating at the local rink. He was graceful and fluid; I tottered on wobbly ankles. He skated over with ibuprofen, a Walkman and headphones. Coltrane was playing “My Favorite Things.” “Trust the edge,” Gary said. Soon I was gliding along, no longer depressed or caring if I fell. I knew he would be there to help me up. 

— Kim Addonizio

 

Back in the Rhythm of Conversation

My 14-year-old, Vedant, dwells in a dungeon (i.e. basement) under my bedroom. Through the muffled cadence of his voice, I deduce if he’s in virtual school or playing an online game. Thrice a day, he comes up for air, asking, “What’s there to eat?” We used to talk a lot on our car rides, about life and feelings. Now we have nowhere to go. For the holidays, I make him my sous chef. Slicing a butternut squash, my knife slips. He takes my bleeding finger in his hand and blows a kiss. Food an excuse, we talk about feelings again. 

— Yogyata Singh Davé