Forget Green Gables

Where is the Goodness and Light I was Promised?

Christmas morning dawns cold, bitterly so. Wokie refuses to go out, but I nudge him gently with the toe of my slipper. "Go on," I say softly, hoping to avoid my mother. The dog looks over his shoulder at me, large brown eyes pitiful.

"It's not my fault," I say. "It's December 25th. Go on."

I hear a noise behind me and jump almost out of my skin. It is my father, shuffling in to make coffee. When he sees me at the back door, his blank expression changes to guilt. "Good morning, Cheyanne."

"Merry Christmas," I say neutrally.

His ashen face tells me all I need to know: he forgot it is Christmas.

"Um, about last night," he starts. I open the screen door and let the dog in, shutting the storm door with more force than strictly necessary.

"Yes?" I ask, a hand on my right hip.

"You don't need to get an attitude with me," he says.

I widen my eyes. Is he kidding? He sat and said nothing as my mother smacked me with a book over nothing, threw the same book at me, then he forgot Christmas, and I 'didn't need' to get an attitude? Oh, that is rich.

"What about last night." I say, uninterested in anything he has to say. However, I know good and well that if I want any peace or any privileges in the coming week and a half, it is in my best interest to just shut up now.

Truth: knowing something is in my best interest and acting upon that knowledge are universes apart for me sometimes. Sometimes, however, apathy sides with my better judgement. In this particular instance, I know the only way to win is not to fight.

Dad looks more closely at me. "Your mother...is homesick. She misses her siblings and Oklahoma."

"Right," I say, picking up my dog and returning to my basement bedroom.