No Noël | ✓

22 » i'm actually scrooge mcduck

22 » i'm actually scrooge mcduck

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I had always thought kicking my Christmas curse to the curb and cutting off all ties with my family would've relieved me of the heavy burden I always felt, especially around this time.

But instead, after slamming the door and facing my apartment, all I felt was an overwhelming sense of loss and heaviness.

I knew what today was. Besides the dreaded Christmas Eve, it also marked the two year anniversary of my grandfather's death.

It wasn't something I often liked to think about. He wasn't someone I liked to think of.

And after that conversation with my parents, with the cruel reminders of how unsupportive and downright dismissive they'd always been, it really stung even more to think of my grandfather.

It was hard to fathom how he was the one who raised my own father. The two couldn't have been more different.

Abuelo never made me feel foolish for wanting to be a writer. He never discouraged me or tried redirecting my dreams. He'd always been the only one I could talk to about it, from the time I was eight years old and writing short stories.

"This one's good, Noel," he used to tell me, all smiles and no judgement. He'd sit in his rocking chair by the fireplace with a mug of what was supposed to be hot chocolate, but was more times than none coquito. We'd laugh about it as he'd tell me to keep it a secret, and I'd say I would, so long as he read my story and gave me feedback.

"You have a way with words, nino. This one's my favorite," he'd say. He always liked the stories with happy endings, never the ones that were left open ended or bittersweet. "I read to be happy. Keep the tragedies and sadness away from me."

He had never rejected reading anything I tossed his way, though. I'd made a conscious effort to only bring him things that ended happily. But once I hit my teenage years and started writing half-assed full stories, I needed an opinion, and he'd still always been the only one I could've turned to—no matter how the story ended.

If he had still been here today, he wouldn't have been happy with any of the pieces I'd written in the last year. Every word I'd written was laced with tragedy and sadness, no happy endings or any signs of one day moving toward one in sight.

But I knew without a doubt he wouldn't have said a word about it. He'd have read every word of every piece, given his opinion and feedback and constructive criticism on what made sense to him and what didn't.

He was helpful, encouraging, and the only bright spot of light in the entire DeJesus family.

The day he died was a tragedy in my life, leaving me lost in the dark after. Another sign that Christmas and the time surrounding it would've never been something worth celebrating.

My mother knew what Abuelo meant to me. They all did. Especially Breanne, who held my hand and guided me during that awful time in my life.

She still left when his one year death anniversary came around, though. She still told me how disappointed in me she was, how directionless in life I was. The same words she knew my mother always said, the same words she knew my grandfather would have never dared uttered about me.