My old man, he could stretch a quart of eggnog from Thanksgiving to New Year's, and that's what he did, year after year, and especially after she died from the lung cancer.
He hated the season. He hated the music and the decorations and the holiday cheer, the idea that he might have something to celebrate.
Even though she was no longer there to make him, he still bought a tree. He dragged it up two flights of stairs, yanked it into the living room, and flung it against a wall. It lay where it fell, and there it stayed until the needles turned brown and brittle.
Just as my old man turned brown and brittle. Smelling of bourbon. Humming that fucking song.
Stephen D. Rogers is the author SHOT TO DEATH and more than 700 shorter works. His website, www.StephenDRogers.com, includes a list of new and upcoming titles as well as other timely information.