Okay, so I finally understand the whole Christmas thing.
It's a family, sharing, eating, laughing, making memories thing. A joy thing.
Oh, yeah, and before JP calls me a heathen again—a baby Jesus thing.
I never celebrated Christmas until I met Bruno, so I missed the wide-eyed innocence of the Papa Noël stage. I don't have a deep attachment to the memories of the day—or thankfully, the melancholy that can come with that.
Like so many, Jean-Paul clings to his early memories of Christmas. Even though he was raised in a hellhole, those memories are strong and meaningful. Maybe they stay with him because they were the only happy days he had then. I don't know.
When JP asked to spend Christmas with me, to create new memories with his new pa, I was surprised and humbled. He wanted a tree—his first in years—so we bought a small one and carried it up the five flights to the apartment. We put it in front of the window, and even though it blocked access to the balcony where I have my smoke, I didn't mind. We had no ornaments, but we smothered the tree in white lights. JP was very precise about the lights; he weaved them through the interior then draped them on the edge of the boughs. It came out beautiful. He's very artistic, that kid, and even fashioned a star out of some wire he found in my toolbox. Honestly, it's quite extraordinary.
We fell asleep looking at that tree.
We spent the next day with Henri and his family. It was noisy, all those people in one small apartment, but there was no shortage of laughter. Sitting at the table, I realized I wasn't just the guy who came to dinner after his shift finished, I was part of a family—brother to Henri; tonton to his kids; Pa to JP. I had the belonging I always hungered for, and understood for the first time, the joy everyone attaches to Christmas.