A small boy with blond hair and blue eyes comes home from school with unusual enthusiasm.  The cause, no doubt, is the nearing of Christmas and the anticipated arrival of Santa.  Not always anxious to show me what’s in his bookbag, the remains of a peanut butter sandwich or a test paper usually being hidden, I was surprised to see him proudly open the bag and pull out a beautiful pair of love-birds, made out of paper, with lovely touches of feathers, realistically drawn, each love-bird exquisitely intertwining.  He had made these lovely birds as a decoration for my Christmas tree. In my usual haste, I told him how pretty they were and put them away to place on the tree later. The tree went up and so did the love-birds, placed there every year during my son’s childhood.  Other decorations made by him were also hung with care.

My little boy grew up and the thrill of Christmas was lost.  The tree didn’t have that sparkle and Santa would no longer visit.  He wasn’t always home to help decorate and to see that I dutifully placed the love birds on the tree.  I continued to do so, despite the years and the tendency to want to pack them away for safe-keeping.

When he was older, he finally told me the story of why he chose the love-birds.  They signified to him the love between his father and me.  When he expressed that significance, I could barely control my emotions, for his father and I had divorced two years after the Christmas he made them.

Last year, we bought the most beautiful tree we ever had, and new twinkling white lights and the most sparkling decorations.  We added the toy soldier, small angel, boy on a sled, and other decorations bought when he was a baby.  Now twenty two years old, tall and handsome, with those beautiful blue eyes, he sat and watched me put up the tree.  We tried to make a festive day of the tree trimming, but he didn’t feel well enough to help, to sing a Christmas carol, or to place the love-birds on the tree.  Several months before Christmas, we found out that he was sick, that he had tested positive for HIV.

Suddenly every Christmas of the past is a sacred memory, and not knowing from one year to the next if he will be here for the next holiday makes every Christmas left precious.  Each Christmas tree, we pick now will be more spectacular than the year before, and the love-birds I thought of packing away will always be on my tree.

The beauty of the Christmas when he brought home the love-birds and the joy on a young boy’s face can never be forgotten.  There is an overwhelming sadness at the thought of any Christmas in the years ahead without him, and the thought of a tree after he is gone is something incomprehensible.  Despite that, there will always be one, perhaps a tree with no lights or decorations, but a pair of love-birds will adorn it.

Susan Reichart-Wanko is the winner of the 1995 Hudson County, New Jersey Writers’ Contest

My eighth grade graduation was a turning point of sorts. No more nuns, no more priests, no more going to church every Sunday to go through the motions of an hour-long Mass of sitting, standing and kneeling. It was June and in 1986 fashion (before I appreciated what fashion was), I didn’t want to graduate in the typical blue blazer and plaid tie. I forced my Mother’s hand and picked out a suit more appropriate for the day – a la Don Johnson on Miami Vice.

White pants, white lace up Capezio shoes, pastel colered shirt, and a stop sign red jacket to tie it all together. I had been to my Mother’s hairdresser that day and he Aqua-Netted my hair into a pre-Donald Trump do guaranteed not to move even through a hurricane. Suffice it to say, I stood out like a Pink Flamingo at a Pigeon contest receiving my diploma. The girls thought I was awesome, the boys were jealous, and I couldn’t see any of it because I refused to where my Coke-bottle glasses as they would ruin my new look. To the dismay of the Nuns, curious looks from other parents and stares from my school mates, I proudly walked up to receive my graduation certificate.

High school began in June of that year as was the custom and I found myself in a completely different world. My parents, long since divorced, could not agree to send me to another private school, so I found myself among the masses of teenagers who weren’t sure what was going on or where they were supposed to be, myself among them.  Gym class proved my breaking point. We were supposed to choose what we wanted to take, and there was quite a variety. But no matter which I choose, I still ended up in a locker room with the other boys changing and showering. I felt extremely uncomfortable, yet I still wasn’t completely sure why. I just knew that I should not be in a room full of naked and half-naked boys bantering about who was the best hitter or kicker or whatever, when all my eyes seemed to do was glance towards their mid-sections and feel embarrassed because of it. Shortly thereafter, I ditched gym clas altogether, having a family friend who happened to be a doctor write notes for me, excusing me from the rest of the classes. This same doctor, along with the help of an over worked secretary in the Principal’s office, kept me out of gym class through the remainder of my years in high school. They offered me swimming; I quickly produced a note saying I was allergic to chlorine. They offered me softball; I got a note from Dr. Magic saying it was bad for my back.  The secretary I worked for loved it, I did her job in place of gym class and she got to take lots of coffee breaks. In doing so, I was able to divert my (I then thought) misplaced feeling for certain boys whom, shall we say, exceeded the others in the locker room and not necessarily in gym class.

This went on until graduation, (which I achieved with honors), and it wasn’t until years later, I began to question the FAITH I had been reared to know. If I was GAY, I’d burn in hell before I woke up. Had I chosen the path that had been laid before me, I probably would have married the one girl who had gaven me a “hickey” before I was 14. As the sands drift down to 40, I find myself wondering which path would have been better… a life of perfect lies, or my life of imperfect appearances.
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Which path would you have chosen?