In Honor of Him

We still hike the same treaded trail of history every Christmas.

Same time. Same park. Same path. I wish I could say I wear the same Ghostbusters pajamas; battling cryptic hallucinations of gap toothed fairies. But Mom, unaware of the threads of time-travel, burned my slime-repellant suit in a flame of forgotten nostalgia.

Paps always said family was more important than anything in the galaxy. Even more important than the Yankees winning the pennant. So in addition to the tradition of family meals between bedlam of work and school, Paps would take us on a Christmas saunter through the park.

We would skip through the trees on the south side entrance. The frigid Christmas air pinching my cheeks like a ruthless Grandma. Morning dew glimmering off the grass like 24 karat crystal winking at a Bel-Air trophy wife. Sparrows caroling Christmas cheer from the window of their tree condos.

We would park ourselves on a bench by the water while Paps told magical stories about the ducks who we fed stale Doritos. Each feather with its own fantastical story. Every beak with its own beating heart. All the ducks deserved and demanded attention. And Paps was sure to grace them all with tall tales of adventure.

In reminiscence, those were the happiest moments of my life. But despite a ginseng shot of holiday joy, I was too young to understand. It wasn’t until after Paps passed away that I appreciated those Christmas days in the park. It’s virtually impossible to immerse in the present and appreciate the simple beauty of stagnant life, especially now, as I fend for myself 24 hours a day, minute by New York minute.

So to maintain sanity and soul, my brother Jim and I make the same trek through the park every Christmas. We bring a bag of stale Doritos and sit upon the pond, sharing a holiday feast with our quacking feathery friends.

We do it to honor Paps. We do it because we’re family.