(47) Living in the Present

The interior of the suburban is dark where my family sits among the shadows, except for the light played through out it from surrounding street lights and store windows. Mixtures of colors and unfamiliar faces blur past our view, as we coast along FDR drive to Houston Street and down Houston into Soho. In the back, numerous bags full to the brim of carefully wrapped packages bounce against each other, gifts that my mother and I have sat together wrapping hours before while listening to our newest collections of Christmas CDs.

“Okay, I’ve got one.”

After crooning almost every Christmas tune we can think of in various harmonies and my father demonstrating an astounding ability of projecting the melody of “Sleigh bells” through the use of slapping the sides of his cheeks, we resort to the game

“Guess the Commercial Jingle.” My father indicates that his turn is about to commence as he cranes his neck around in the passenger seat to look at my sister and I before he starts.

After a few seconds of staring up at the ceiling in thought, he begins to hum an unrecognizable melody. Olivia and I listen carefully, wrinkling our foreheads with puzzlement at this mysterious selection.

“Doctor Pepper!” My mother suddenly blurts out and my father’s face instantly breaks out into a glowing smile. Gazing at each other they continue the song in unison as my mom continues to grip the steering wheel.

“It’s not a cola, it’s something much much more, it’s not a root beer, there are root beers by the score…”

I glance out the window laughing cheerfully as we whish past the fifth Gap clothing store of the evening and fiftieth something sandwich deli. Crowds of people continue to stir around in the streets with loud music blaring, occasional shouting and raucous laughter. New York truly is the city that never sleeps.

“Now you’re going to take the next right, dear.”

My mother peers at the clumps of oncoming traffic until it clears so that a large enough break is able to let us swing through to the other side of the road and into a quiet parking lot. Passing through rows of cars, we find a vacant space and my mother pulls to a halt. We sit for a few moments, glancing at each other with rising excitement, until my dad cracks open the door and hops out onto the pavement. I glance behind me longingly as he lifts the collections of parcels so that he holds an overstuffed bag in each hand.

“Livy, give me a hand with these will you?” Next to me Olivia slowly clicks open her seat belt and patters in her sneakers along the side of the car to the back. When all bags are being carried in, I hop outside the vehicle to slam shut the back door and then clamber back into the warmth of the car.

My mother and I remain sitting silently in our seats, the only sounds issuing from passing cars whishing along the busy streets. I break the silence. “I wish we could watch them open their presents.” I think with sudden sadness. Visions fill my mind of the nights we strolled the aisles as a family of Toys R Us and Kohl’s, searching among stacks of items happily for the gifts we imagined would bring the most joy when discovered on Christmas Eve. Delicious smells filled the house from the hours of baking my mother had performed in order to bake cookies and other yummy holiday treats.
Then finally, just a few hours ago my mother and I sat cross-legged among shreds of paper and rolls of tape while Christmas tunes serenaded us from the corner stereo. We had folded and covered gift after gift, mine not as perfectly formed as the effortless outcomes of my mother’s graceful hands, but she knew as well as I did that this year more than ever it was the thought that counted. Now all our hard work was finally going to be paid off to a family in need, but unfortunately with our decision to remain anonymous in these acts, we weren’t ever going to be able to be rewarded with the sights of such beaming faces or perhaps a shed tear or two. After handing all of gifts and treats to my dad’s business partner, we could only hope that the receivers would find as much joy accepting our offerings as we did creating them, but we would never truly see the change in their countenances.

Just then footsteps sounded heading towards me, and the doors opened as Olivia and my dad sat back down comfortably in their seats.

“Well, Bill was astounded, he told us that there wasn’t a doubt we would really make this family’s Christmas terrific.” My dad informed us happily. My mother turned the ignition of the key and with a gently rumble the car started and we pulled out of the parking lot.

“Oh, and he gave me this.” A card was slid into my hand and I realized that it was a photograph. “He had this on his desk and thought it would be nice for us to have it.” Holding the picture up to the window I searched the faces of the small family we had adopted this year as our own. A glowing woman with short dark hair and a brilliant smile sits on a light green beaten couch. Next to her, her husband is positioned. His dark eyes appear tired and forlorn but his face is pulled into a beaming smile never the less and two small boys are perched on the edges of both parents’ laps. Suddenly the growing love for this family intensifies with the thought that maybe those eyes would suddenly contain a sparkle come this Christmas morning.

As we once again found our way among the numerous shops and street corners, the satisfaction for what we have just accomplished is evident. We have grown closer to each other through the service of another group of people. As we pull into the lane of the toll to head back to Connecticut, my father speaks.

“Since it’s Christmas tomorrow, how about we go around the car and say one thing nice about everyone.” My father suggests and no one opposes the idea.

We follow with words of love to every family member, mentioning the admirable qualities we find in one another, exceeding well over one thing. My mother is the last to take her turn and begins by commenting on how much she is going to miss Livy when she leaves for college and how much she appreciates the help I gave in wrapping the presents. Then she continues though to vocalize something profound that everyone had felt that evening. Gazing lovingly at my father she added, “And I am grateful to Dad,” she pauses and then continues, “For helping our family see outside of ourselves this Christmas, past our wants and our supposed needs to the importance of improving the holidays of a family in real need.”

Olivia and I both smile warmly at our father, for this year we had truly learned something about Christmas that we would never forget. Sure, tomorrow morning there won’t be as many piles of presents underneath the tree and Britney might just win the contest of who received the best material gifts, but Olivia and I had received a reward far greater than anything purchased. This year we had influenced another set of lives besides our own. We had made a difference and though it might have been a small sacrifice on our parts, the rewards far outweighed the efforts, for nothing can bring more pure and unforgettable joy, than bestowing the gifts of love and charity.