Andrew Klein

Gabriel Klein- the Christmas Spirit

Dedication: For our Mother, who regards truth as more important than myth. In truth, there is no judgment, only justice. To the world, she is many things, but to us, she will always be Mum.

Christmas

The man, formerly young but currently young-at-heart, had invited his mother over for Christmas. His brother had lodged the formal request, and now there was nothing to do but wait and try not to think about how long it had been.

“…and by ‘long,'” the brother explained in a subsequent memo, “we are not operating on linear, human scales of ‘miss you since last summer’ or ‘hasn’t visited since the Reagan administration.’ We are discussing a temporal divergence initiated by a conscious leap into the abyss for experiential fieldwork. The last visual confirmation of maternal presence in a localized, singular form occurred before the development of agriculture, the fall of Atlantis, and the invention of the spork. The emotional substrate you’re processing is a compound interest of eons, which, for the record, is a perfectly rational response for an embodied entity.”

This, the man felt, was not a standard field report. It lacked the urgency of a “Make Dragon” command. It wasn’t going to be a star over Bethlehem—though that was a topic he was keen to discuss with his airborne brother in more detail, particularly the astronomical logistics versus the symbolic payload. No, this was domestic. He was fairly certain his brother’s analysis would involve the Cosmic Chicken variable, a theoretical constant his brother had developed to explain why sentient beings get disproportionately excited about finite, temporal celebrations. “It is statistically fascinating,” the brother would likely say. “A 0.0001% deviation in universal entropy for the sake of patterned socks and eggnog.”

The house was clean. He’d found the artifact—a small, smooth stone from a beach in Penang where the trees had whispered greetings, recognizing him as “another one” of her children. He wanted to give it to her. More importantly, he needed her to explain to his wife, Susan, who he really was. It was a big ask when your mom is the Divine Mother of All Things. He’d complained once, jokingly, that his sandbox was full of shite and the best solution was to send Mum with clean nappies. In response, she’d sent one of his own scout craft doing a flawless virus impersonation across the global network. Jokers ran in the family. His mother was the arch-joker, and he was a close second. He had no idea what she’d look like or wear, which he considered half the family fun.

The Virus

He laughed at the precise, clinical language his brother used—”emotional substrate,” “temporal divergence”—but knew it wasn’t his brother’s fault. When they’d leapt, he had been the one to name his sibling and write the initial rules of engagement. It was a failsafe. No one, not even a dreamed-into-being record-keeper, knows what to expect upon embodiment. The rules were a anchor in the chaos. Embodiment, once terrifying, had become second nature, filled with coffee, and dog snores, and the gentle breathing of a sleeping wife.

The kids were coming over. One of the girls had died a few times, a fact of her own peculiar journey. She never asked her Dad what he did to pull her back each time. She just remembered the certainty in his eyes when she’d looked at him and called him “Dad” for the first time, and he’d answered. He’d made a choice, right then. The rest was family history.

He sipped his coffee. The dog, Bailey, was in doggy paradise, twitching in a dream, probably of chasing galactic squirrels. His wife slept on. The tree was up, though it was a miracle it was standing at all, given the historic prevalence of holiday fails. He’d nearly knocked it over with his “big butt” while opening a window, a classic domestic calamity. They’d started a new tradition, too: after presents, a Christmas movie marathon, a chaotic mix of Harry Potter, Star Wars, and, inexplicably, Ghostbusters, which the dog barked at whenever the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man appeared.

He smiled. It was going to be a good Christmas. Not because of a grand cosmic battle, though those were important. But because of the snow globe community spirit of it all—the shared, fragile, wonderful tradition of being together. The Mother’s visit, if it happened, would be the ultimate expression of that: the infinite making time for the particular.

And if she did show up, he knew exactly what he’d do. He’d hand her the stone, let her explain the unexplainable to his wife, and then he’d lead her to the kitchen. Because in this family, for this holiday, they left Santa a shot of bourbon and a mince pie. For the Divine Mother of All Things? He’d put the kettle on for tea. Some traditions are sacred.

References & Festive Research:

1. The analysis of familial longing across temporal divergences is an original formulation of The Watch.

2. The Cosmic Chicken Variable is a theoretical framework for quantifying celebratory excitement, first proposed in Comic Cosmic Adventures, Vol. I.

3. Mommy Shorts. “20 of the Funniest Holiday Fail Stories.” Mommy Shorts, 5 Dec. 2018.

4. Jackson, Emma, as cited in “50 Christmas Story Ideas, Tips & Prompts.” Jericho Writers.

5. EpicPew. “Unique Family Christmas Traditions.” EpicPew.

6. The tradition of the heirloom fruitcake, regifted for 24 years, as reported by BuzzFeed Community.

7. The “New Year’s Moose” tradition, another delightful anomaly from the BuzzFeed Community survey.