Paper Crowns

Christmas is a series of evolving habits.

A little story about Christmas. I’ll be back in the next year. Until then, have a great holiday season.

Brick by brick, we build our lives around us. Each level weighs down the last, compounding its strength, its place. Turning the sky pink and gold, then finally blue and grey, the sun rises, pulling us up with it. Curtains draw, mouths yawn; we shower, brush our teeth, dress, drink, then grab our keys and our phone and head out the door. No thoughts are required in those first few steps; they’re one of the lowest rows of bricks, laid long ago, weighed down by years of new rituals and routines. Habits.

“Morning,” he said, passing his neighbour on his way to work. Her dog snaps at her heels, and she smiles, caught up in her own world, plugged into another place.

“Hey! Morning,” she replies, putting the pieces together. It’s the same every morning: him, quick to spot her, fast with his greeting; her, slow to recognise, her voice more enthusiastic with the delay.

Rain starts from nowhere, spitting at his back. His hood fits snugly around his head, adjusted to hug his ears; he’s wise to the wind and her craftiness, never waiting too long to blow his hood off. Ducking his head into the rain, he avoids the eyes of the man on the corner. Homeless, he has always assumed, although he’s never seen him lying down or cowering in a shop doorway. Incessantly, he sweeps at the cobbles, even when, as they are today, wet and clean. That is his habit, he thinks, passing him, hearing the strokes of his brush, knowing he’s somewhere to his left without seeing the evidence.

He turns right, then right again, moving through the city. Pine trees and strings of golden lights frame hungry windows and decorate doorways with pretty wreaths and satin red bows. He doesn’t like how good they make him feel—nostalgic, happy, bordering on giddy. Quick to replace those good feelings: regret, grief, and disappointment.

December is a cruel month; it grooms when you’re young, abuses when you reach adulthood, then, after you’ve laid another storey of bricks towering above your head, you soften again to its playlist and performances. He’s not yet softened, nor is he close; for him, those pine trees seem to laugh at him, the lights highlighting everything he has lost. Cramped chairs and long tables come to mind. Warm conversation fizzing across healthy portions of roasted potatoes and turkey. That dining room was always unbearably hot, but none of them gave in, removing their itchy Christmas jumpers or paper crowns.

Turning right, he focuses his gaze on the damp cobbles glowing gold. He navigates the puddles, plotting his route through the city. The rain has started to fall harder, and the wind joins in, blowing gusts at his face. He grins, happy for the distraction, grateful at the thought that someone is looking over him.

Bikes pass him now as they always do, bodies leaning into the oncoming wind, faces grimacing at the spitting rain. A pink helmet flashes past, and he recognises it. It’s so reliable it has unknowingly become a part of his own wall. So much of this route has become a part of it: his neighbour, the sound of the brush, and in December, the memories fed by the rows of lights and decorated pines. Turning the last corner, wind wraps around his neck as though it’s a scarf, tugging on the waterproof fabric of his hood. Goosebumps descend his spine, and he hurries his last few steps to the café door.

Empty tables and cold seats are unusual, but there are always exceptions, even to the most stringent routines. Even an addict breaks their habit now and again. Warm air greets him at the door, falling like heavy rain from the heater on the ceiling.

“Morning,” his voice is a little loud; it always is. The wind and the rain, the sound of the bikes ticking by, and a brush sweeping clean cobbles are distracting, as if he’s wearing headphones.

“Hey, Merry Christmas… Americano?” She says, as if that’s his name. He nods.

“Thanks,” he says and claims a seat — his seat in the corner of the room. There he can continue his routine, his habit, quietly observing the lives of strangers play out in a revolving cycle. No doubt he overstays his welcome, sipping slowly on his drink of choice until hunger gets the better of him. Today, though, hunger might be beaten to the punch by nothingness. Out of the gaping windows, he sees the steady flow of bikes, their paddlers still leaning into the rain, some, he notices, wearing Santa hats. Across the street, more lights and wreaths and sparkling displays meant to please.

“Enjoy,” her voice is pleasant, sweet even, and he can’t help the corners of his lips pressing into his cheeks. There’s a piece of off-cut brownie balancing on the saucer, melting against the cup.

“Thanks. You’re not that busy today.”

“That tends to happen today. It’ll get busy in an hour or so.”

“I hope not, for your sake,” he says, remembering again what today used to be like. Early morning, persuading the house to get up, shepherding them downstairs. His brother was always the hardest, most reluctant, rolling over in his bed as soon as he opened his door. Storming down the stairs, he’d find his dad already at work, chopping carrots and peeling potatoes. Merry Christmas, they’d say in unison, and they’d hug. Creaking floorboards and the moaning boiler bled into the Christmas songs soaking the living room with their goodwill. Can you grab the bin bags? Sure. Even at Christmas, there was a sense of order, and he never minded it. Actually, it was the one day he enjoyed. The entire day was ordered, routine, habitual. One event naturally followed the next without prior thought or consideration. It was like his usual morning or the predictability of the rain following the wind as if it was its shadow.

A family passes by the windows, each one smiling, fueled with contentment, not yet spoiled by an inevitable tantrum. They pass, then pause, stop, then come in.

“Merry Christmas,” the youngest and most smiley of the four shouts.

“Look at my new boots!” She kicks her right foot high, almost tipping over.

“Very cool. Who got you those?” She asks behind the counter, leaning over it to get a better view.

“Santa!” Her answer comes, loud and giddy. Again, he’s thrown backwards, remembering the pride with which he exhibited his presents every year at the morning service. On stage, standing next to his best friends, looking over a congregation of thick Christmas jumpers and Santa hats. But it was never the gifts he received that made him giddy; it was those he got to give and the reactions they elicited. Thinking of them now, he smiles, knowing only too well how underwhelming they actually were. But content hardly mattered. It was the ritual, the routine, so warm and fuzzy it made everyone forget, at least temporarily, about the arguments, disputes, the clouds that stained the blue sky grey.

He feels it then, looking out the window, watching the bikes tick past, listening to the family across the room outline their plans for the day. It came suddenly, catching him off guard, making it difficult to swallow.

Buzz. Buzz. Buzz. Not looking, he reaches into his pocket and pulls out his phone. Merry Christmas! Let me know when I can call. That’s their new routine, their new habit, talking to each other through a screen. Repeating words when the connection drops, taking turns to tell a story, getting passed around the room. And even though it doesn’t come close to what it had been, even though he’s no longer enchanted by it, he’s still able to appreciate these fleeting moments of kindness. They’re bricks he’s chosen to paint, adding a bright splash of contrast to the rows of mud red.

“Gotta go,” he says, sliding his empty cup over the counter.

“Merry Christmas.”

---

Love Luke,

Like my style? Get a copy of my debut novel Love, Loss & The View From my Window