By Gina Harlow

Janice crossed the coast highway and made her way to Cliff Drive , drawn like a current between elements . At the sight of the blue on the horizon she felt her pulse slow . This constant magnificence , amidst all our small comings and goings , she always thought . She walked the sidewalk through the grassy fields and park benches , through the palms that towered and the slopes that spilled to crescents of sand . She descended the stairs to the beach where gulls

swooped and a lone crane sat on a cropping of rocks , the water rippling with light .

She told no one when she slipped away , turkey in the oven , pies cooling on the counter . And there was something about this misbehavior in which she thrilled . On the sand , there was no scent of cinnamon , no multicolored lights , no garland or stockings , no knickknacks cluttering up the house , no piles of presents that would be soon opened , soon returned , no imperative to have a merry little Christmas . Because along with everything else that triggered her anxiety over the holidays , it was that song that played on her psyche . She had banned holiday music in the house until the day before Christmas and her family had allowed her that authoritarianism . All the melodies permeating the world before the Halloween candy was gone felt like a kind of water boarding . But it was that song with its trite fantasies that pushed her into aversion .

As the soundtrack to every errand she had to run , she thought of how it simply wasn ’ t true , that all our troubles would be out of sight . It

was as if that old carol had suddenly become or had always been sad irony against the unmelodious state of what was really going on . At the holidays , the disconnect between the commanded merriment and the hard facts everywhere you looked seemed as glaring as the music . Like her encounter with the shelf stocker at Whole Foods who described himself , in the brief moments of their acquaintance on the pasta aisle , as a Jewish atheist , and proud of it , and who thought everyone was not very nice at Christmas . Or her friend just finding out at the most wonderful time of the year that it would be chemo for her in a few weeks and Santa was going to have to bring her a wig for Christmas . A virgin birth , a world of beliefs and disbeliefs . In this supposed season of cheer she questioned it all .

Pulling off her shoes and digging her toes in the sand , she thought of what was left to do and how she should get back home . She also thought back to that morning when her daughter had popped up early and sidled next to her in the kitchen to help with the cooking . Her measuring

out the spices to the half teaspoon , wanting to get Nan ’ s recipe just right . She remembered , too , the night before , her son hanging out , playing what seemed like an endless game of dominos with his grandparents , them teaching him the rules .

She looked out to the water , which always felt like church , always a reminder of everything she could never know . As she was getting up to leave , a young man in a wetsuit with a Santa hat carrying a surfboard walked by , grinning big . “ Merry Christmas !” he said . “ Oh , hey , yeah , same to you ,” she said , feeling a wish for this stranger take hold in her as she made her way back home .

Gina Harlow is a writer trying to chill in the sweet California sunshine and wishing everyone peace and joy in this season .