Every Year

Christmas arrives and somehow I’m still surprised by it, like I haven’t been bracing for this same evening since October. Here we are again, right on schedule.

Uncle Jörg will drink too much—there’s no maybe about it—and his greasy hands will start finding places they shouldn’t be. Erich, my sister’s friend who somehow keeps getting invited, will describe his Nepal trip like he’s the first person to ever travel somewhere and come back changed. Aunt Iris will try to sing. My mother will ask what I actually do for work, and I’ll explain it in a way that sounds both accurate and completely useless. The red wine is the only thing getting me through this evening.

Maybe the food will be decent. Maybe Paula texts something nice. Maybe nobody fights this year. Maybe Jörg doesn’t show up with some disgusting gift already sweating in his hands—something pink with hearts on it, something that makes you wonder what he’s actually thinking when he shops.

It’s always the same. I show up hoping for something different, knowing it won’t be, doing it anyway.