A Christmas Punch

by Ned Serleth

The bunch of us sit and watch them put Christmas lights on the plastic tree. Each little bulb glaring out its color as if to remind everyone in the room the world is not black and white. That little truth doesn’t really appear to be the case from where I sit. The floor tiles lie in squares of black and white. The walls and ceilings are painted a colorless white. Why even the people decorating the tree wear nothing but white from their shoes to their shirts. No, maybe the world is black and white. Either way, the Christmas tree declares another year has come sliding along while Father Time slowly steals away the days.

Next comes the artificial garland with its holly looking leaves and red berries. It drapes over the door, a stark contrast of green against the antiseptic white background. The group watches as the room becomes transformed from its usual institutionalization to something that mocks a life of happiness and freedom.

Christmas music now fills the air, and some become nostalgic when Frank Sinatra croons Silent Night. Tears roll down their black or white cheeks to be wiped away by those that are able. As for me, I sit in my chair and reminisce with the best of them.

No doubt families will begin to drop by. ’Tis the season after all. Christmas, birthdays, and Easter always bring the families, although the latter is iffy.

I’ve noticed cards have begun to arrive, too. Dorothy got a homemade one from her great-granddaughter, and she hasn’t been able to stop crying since. Foolish woman. What did she expect, an invitation to the family Christmas dinner? Just as well though, she would probably have trouble digesting all those traditional Christmas foods after the gourmet meals we get here. No, it’s better just staying on our own side of the fence. Besides, I never put much stock in those family gatherings anyway. Everybody trying to be on their best behavior when they’d rather punch the son-in-law in the jaw just because.

I’ve been here ten Christmases now. One’s pretty much like the last. There’ll be turkey, instant mashed potatoes, yams, (I hate yams.), and some anemic gravy probably left over from Thanksgiving. That’s okay, I guess. There’s nothing for it. Who am I to complain. I get my three squares, a bed, and all the company I can stomach.

Here comes Joseph’s son and his fat wife. I’ve never been able to tell if she’s pregnant or ate too many Christmas dinner leftovers. They’ve got five kids in tow, so you can understand my confusion. Joseph will hug all the kids and ask the two girls for kisses. If ever there was a trophy for having a poker face, them two girls would never win it. It’s all they can do to even be here, let alone pucker up for ol’ Joseph. He’ll guilt his son into a game of cribbage while the rest of the family fidgets and fights over who gets to sit where. When the hour is up, they’ll run out of here as if the place were on fire.

Wait, here comes my two daughters. It’s so good to see them. They’ve grown up to be beautiful young ladies. They’ll ask me how I’m doing, whether they’re treating me right, and a ton of other irrelevant questions. I’d like to answer them, but all I can do is sit in this chair, and blink, and drool ever since the stroke.

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Ned Serleth graduated from Northern Arizona University with a BA in education. After causing thirty-six years of damage to an untold number of students, he retired from teaching English and creative writing. He has self-published a memoir entitled Thursday at the Old Man’s Club - A Hack Memoir, the first of three books of ghost stories, The Last Three Days of Poe and Thirteen Tales of the Supernatural, and an anthology of poems called Unleash the Doggerels. He has also written for Moss Motoring, Chevy Times, and The Tennessean.