*
86
Astrid Amara
I spent the rest of the day in a daze of contentment, remembering the feeling of Ethan’s
chest against mine, reliving the sight of his cock looming above my face, that pure smile of
his as we said good night. Perhaps I was wrong about him after all. I could let go of my
worries. They were based on events from over a decade ago. Surely I had to allow a man to
change?
My contentment seemed to spread to the rest of my family. Aunt Goldie hummed to
herself as she knitted beside the fire, and my mother clearly appreciated the fact that I
changed into my other sweater halfway through the day, just to please her. We ran out of
firewood, but I convinced my father to sacrifice his impressive collection of lumber in the
spirit of survival.
This was a big deal for my father, who had a cherished vision of building himself a
workbench and shelves in the garage since I was in first grade. He had manuals and magazine
articles; he had even acquired a band saw and a drill press. It had been a source of tension
between my parents, as the amount of wood multiplied and years went by without a single
nail driven.
The mythical workbench was generally a sore topic, but when I gingerly broached the
idea of burning some of his prized collected lumber to keep us warm, my father clapped his
hands and stood up resolutely.
“You’re right, Jonah!” He said, his brow furrowed. “Sacrifices have to be made in times
of crisis. The workbench must go!”
I helped him haul in wood from the garage, keeping a keen eye on his expression to see
if he turned remorseful. The “workbench” was currently a dozen two by fours of varying
types of wood, depending on the year and his mood.
He kept a stiff upper lip, but almost looked relieved as the flames lapped at the wood. I
wondered if he had been looking for an excuse all these years to get out of the grand project
he had talked up since I could spell.
Holiday Outing
87
Dinner that night was peaceful. Aunt Goldie had been productive while the rest of us
bemoaned our fates, and had completed nine scarves in matching bright orange fuzzy wool.
We wore these to dinner, wrapped around our faces to stave off the cold.
My mother clapped her hands every time another of my father’s never-started
carpentry projects succumbed to the fire. He tossed in wood with previously unseen
enthusiasm.
“Enough of the carpentry!” he shouted, throwing in another mill end. “I’m going to buy
a workbench, damn it!”
Daniel found a radio station that played oldies from the swing years, and my parents
danced by the fireplace. Matthew danced with his mother, and Rachel blushed furiously as
her older brother tried to teach her how to break dance to Benny Goodman.
Only my uncle, Ethan, and I abstained. My uncle fell asleep in the recliner, but Ethan
and I smiled at each other as the others danced around us.
When the music changed to a slower beat we huddled around the fire, my mother and
father laughing as they argued playfully, all of us admiring our matching scarves, and it was
suddenly one of the happiest family gatherings I could remember. Yes, we were eating
canned corn in large quantities; yes, we suffered powerless and cold and had to cope with
boredom and hunger; yes, my secrets still lingered, foul with the taint of lies; but it didn’t
matter. My cousin Rachel lit the fourth candle and I felt connected to them all, boundless,
yet bonded, for the first time in years.
Ethan sat beside me. His hand reached out and stealthily touched the small of my back.
With the fire blazing, burning my face, his hand scorching me through, my family’s
laughter, our perseverance -- it all suddenly came together as an instant memory, something
so beautiful it fills one with nostalgia even as one lives through the moment. I held on to that
feeling like the caress of a lover, the smell of a loved pet, the first sight of something new and
beautiful. It was as close to
86
Astrid Amara
I spent the rest of the day in a daze of contentment, remembering the feeling of Ethan’s
chest against mine, reliving the sight of his cock looming above my face, that pure smile of
his as we said good night. Perhaps I was wrong about him after all. I could let go of my
worries. They were based on events from over a decade ago. Surely I had to allow a man to
change?
My contentment seemed to spread to the rest of my family. Aunt Goldie hummed to
herself as she knitted beside the fire, and my mother clearly appreciated the fact that I
changed into my other sweater halfway through the day, just to please her. We ran out of
firewood, but I convinced my father to sacrifice his impressive collection of lumber in the
spirit of survival.
This was a big deal for my father, who had a cherished vision of building himself a
workbench and shelves in the garage since I was in first grade. He had manuals and magazine
articles; he had even acquired a band saw and a drill press. It had been a source of tension
between my parents, as the amount of wood multiplied and years went by without a single
nail driven.
The mythical workbench was generally a sore topic, but when I gingerly broached the
idea of burning some of his prized collected lumber to keep us warm, my father clapped his
hands and stood up resolutely.
“You’re right, Jonah!” He said, his brow furrowed. “Sacrifices have to be made in times
of crisis. The workbench must go!”
I helped him haul in wood from the garage, keeping a keen eye on his expression to see
if he turned remorseful. The “workbench” was currently a dozen two by fours of varying
types of wood, depending on the year and his mood.
He kept a stiff upper lip, but almost looked relieved as the flames lapped at the wood. I
wondered if he had been looking for an excuse all these years to get out of the grand project
he had talked up since I could spell.
Holiday Outing
87
Dinner that night was peaceful. Aunt Goldie had been productive while the rest of us
bemoaned our fates, and had completed nine scarves in matching bright orange fuzzy wool.
We wore these to dinner, wrapped around our faces to stave off the cold.
My mother clapped her hands every time another of my father’s never-started
carpentry projects succumbed to the fire. He tossed in wood with previously unseen
enthusiasm.
“Enough of the carpentry!” he shouted, throwing in another mill end. “I’m going to buy
a workbench, damn it!”
Daniel found a radio station that played oldies from the swing years, and my parents
danced by the fireplace. Matthew danced with his mother, and Rachel blushed furiously as
her older brother tried to teach her how to break dance to Benny Goodman.
Only my uncle, Ethan, and I abstained. My uncle fell asleep in the recliner, but Ethan
and I smiled at each other as the others danced around us.
When the music changed to a slower beat we huddled around the fire, my mother and
father laughing as they argued playfully, all of us admiring our matching scarves, and it was
suddenly one of the happiest family gatherings I could remember. Yes, we were eating
canned corn in large quantities; yes, we suffered powerless and cold and had to cope with
boredom and hunger; yes, my secrets still lingered, foul with the taint of lies; but it didn’t
matter. My cousin Rachel lit the fourth candle and I felt connected to them all, boundless,
yet bonded, for the first time in years.
Ethan sat beside me. His hand reached out and stealthily touched the small of my back.
With the fire blazing, burning my face, his hand scorching me through, my family’s
laughter, our perseverance -- it all suddenly came together as an instant memory, something
so beautiful it fills one with nostalgia even as one lives through the moment. I held on to that
feeling like the caress of a lover, the smell of a loved pet, the first sight of something new and
beautiful. It was as close to
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