Happy Birthday

It was pouring rain, but I just couldn’t leave on his birthday, Christmas Day. I placed the pine cone wreath against the headstone, the red bells I added for the holiday chiming.

Drenched, I kneeled and said a silent prayer. I teared at the memory of his last birthday, ecstatic after he tore open the wrapping and saw it was golf clubs; his blue eyes lit the room.

I stood for a few more minutes reflecting.

As I touched the tombstone, I felt a shiver up my arm and one of the bells landed by my foot.

“Happy Birthday, Georgie.”

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

First Thanksgiving

The turkey is in the oven, and I breathe in the flavor. The table is set, and the apple pie is cooling on the counter; the sweet smell makes me want to eat a piece before the family arrives.

This is the first Thanksgiving I’ve hosted since Brad’s passing, and this had been his favorite holiday. He’d always sneak a taste of the raisin stuffing I’d make special for him before anyone would arrive.

I’m sitting with my feet up sipping white wine, savoring the flavor when the doorbell rings.

I take a deep breath and head to the door.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

The Present

“Are you okay, Ed?”

To relieve the pressure, Ed tugged on his undershirt collar. He and Mel were at the counter of AL'S DINER.

“My Aunt...”

“What?”

His words came haltingly.

“Aunt Edna...”

Each holiday, she gave the constricting presents.

Before Ed, they went to Uncle Fred. The poor man suffered from the waist down. After the holidays, he always had trouble with his privates.

Always Edna's too-tight underwear.

“Your throat, Ed? Can you swallow the oatmeal?”

His jugulars stood out.

He twisted awkwardly on the swivel seat.

His throat?

His undershirt?

“It's not the throat I'm worried about, Mel.”

From Guest Contributor David Sydney

True Meaning

As a boy, I remember my dad telling me Christmas is about family and spending time together. Secondary, exchanging gifts.

My own children are opening their presents and their beaming faces light up the room. The Christmas tree is sparkling with silver tinsel and an angel at the top of the tree, its wings white and glowing. Decorations and food consume the house this time of year, the baked ziti’s sauce filling the air with a delicious aroma. But these delightful things are not what my children celebrate.

The birth of Jesus Christ is the reason we celebrate the holiday.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

The Roundabout

We are on a holiday in Greece. Jim is at the wheel and I am navigating our return to Athens from Marathon. The roads are frantic and the drivers insane. We did not arrange for a GPS in the rental car, which was a mistake.

Suddenly we find ourselves at a roundabout. Jim asks tersely, “Which exit do I take?”

“Slow down so I can read the signs,” I bark back. “Is that upside-down Greek “y” an “L” in English?”

The meaning of the expression “It’s all Greek to me” makes sense now.

Six circumnavigations later, we’re on our way.

From Guest Contributor Janice Siderius

Close Memories

It’s Halloween and I’m at my wife’s grave for her anniversary. She died three years ago, and I made a promise that I would be there every year to place a large pumpkin next to her headstone.

Halloween had been Terrie’s favorite holiday. She enlivened the house with carved pumpkins on every table, spooky collectible houses with eerie music and lots of candy for the children.

I missed her, but I kept the memories of her love close.

When I turned to leave, I felt something touch my arm.

I looked back at the grave and the pumpkin was gone.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

Humbug New Year’s

On the television, the ball in Time’s Square dropped. “Happy New Year,” the crowd shouted. I gulped my wine, not a fan of champagne, and shut the TV. After all, I detested New Year’s Eve. It’s a lonely holiday for some, myself included, and I’d rather get drunk on wine in the comfort of my own home, warm by the fire.

Tired, I took off my robe, climbed into bed and turned off the lamp. I told myself, tomorrow would be just another day.

Instead of spending the first day of the new year relaxing, I typed my resignation letter.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

The Gift

Timothy wants a brother for Christmas.

His mother, divorced, comes up with an alternative solution and sits Timothy on her lap. “Honey, there’s another way we could give you a similar present. Each month we can sponsor a child.”

Timothy tilts his head. “What does that mean, Mommy?”

“Well, each month we’ll send money to help the boy get food, education, and whatever he needs. Some children in other countries can’t afford these things and need help.”

Timothy’s face lit up the room with his radiant smile. “I like that, Mommy.”

In Bangladesh, a little boy has a happy holiday.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

Evolution #9

Yesterday was scheduled to be a holiday. Then shoals of fish came creeping over the hill, having grown rudimentary arms and legs. “What the fuck?!” you said as you watched them begin to blend in with the surroundings. Despite the invasion, no one was coming to save us. Some people panicked and, in their impatience to escape, broke out windows or jumped from moving trains. Others were climbing up to their roofs. I think this might be the way of the future, and just in case it is, maybe you should be standing over there helping hold the ladder steady.

From Guest Contributor Howie Good

Howie co-edits the journals Unbroken and UnLost.

Holiday Spirit

My neighbor’s colorful red, blue and green Christmas lights gleam
through my window, as my tree with white lights and silver garland
enliven the room.

I sit with my coffee and watch my wife and children prepare milk and
sugar cookies for Santa.

The Christmas song Silent Night plays on the radio and I sit back, feet
reclined, taking in the warmth of the fireplace.

My kids leave the milk and cookies by the fireplace, expecting Santa will come through the chimney with his big round belly and toys.

My family is as true the meaning of Christmas as Jesus.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher