Sometimes, the best holidays are the ones you don’t remember at all

click to enlarge A blur can be best.
A blur can be best.

There's plenty I remember about 2008, the last year I lived in the home of my childhood.

I remember high school. I remember going into my senior year hoping that my crush would like me, that I’d make new friends, that I’d be accepted into the college I wanted.

I remember my parents losing their jobs. I remember the whispered conversations they had behind closed doors. 

I remember being a bad driver. I remember that I backed my mom’s car into a parked truck. I tried to hide it, but there was a dent on the rear bumper the size of a beach ball. I remember my mom’s face when she found out, knowing they didn’t have the money to fix it. 

I remember getting a job at Subway. I remember the relief I felt when I no longer needed to ask my parents for money before going out with friends.

I remember the stock market crash. I remember the faces and the graphs on the shows that always gave bad news and I had no idea what any of it meant. 

I remember my parents telling me we would soon lose the house. It was the house I had lived my entire life in. I remember feeling angry that we were being forced out because I wanted to leave on my own terms, after I graduated. 

I remember the presidential election, a sense of hope things would change soon, a feeling that this economic downturn would pass. 

I remember my mom coming up with a plan for us to give gift cards she’d found to those in need. I remember how she told my older sister and me that in order to receive, we needed to learn how to give. I remember thinking it was dumb — we needed charity. 

I remember the sinking feeling that everything was going to change without knowing if it would be for the better. 

But I don’t remember Christmas. 

I have an idea of what probably happened. I assume that, one last time, I rushed down the stairs of the home I grew up in and ripped open my presents. I assume that I spent the day watching NBA basketball, and that my mom made a ham for dinner. 

I assume it was a normal, good Christmas. It had to be, because I don’t have any memory of it. 

Today, the world is entering the strangest holiday season of my lifetime. Family gatherings are discouraged. People are losing their jobs. Relatives are dying. 

And I find myself hoping for something most unlikely. I hope that a decade from now, when I look back at 2020, I won’t remember this Christmas at all.

Days of Decadence

Jan. 31-Feb. 14
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About The Author

Wilson Criscione

Wilson Criscione, born and raised in Spokane, is an Inlander staff writer covering education and social services in the Inland Northwest.