So we did.
"What will we do on Christmas morning?" I asked.
"Get up late," Bill said. "Make pancakes. Look at the tree. Start the Christmas Day hike with the neighbors an hour earlier."
I expected it to be awful. That inaugural no-presents December, I avoided all shopping areas with holiday music coming through the loudspeakers; I thought I would feel bereft. But I didn't. I felt light. Unburdened. I imagined the store aisles, their terrible possibilities, their counters sagging with slightly wrong things. I imagined the people in the store aisles, and the way they always seemed to me in December to look either joyous and serene in an immensely irritating manner, or else bewildered and rumpled and haunted and askew. I tried playing the Messiah at home, without wrapping anything at the same time, and until I got to the "Hallelujah Chorus"—that's the "and He shall reign for ever and ever" part—I was okay. I think Handel meant for people to weep at the "Hallelujah Chorus," anyway. The next year I went to a performance of the Messiah, where of course I cried my eyes out but in a satisfactory, music lover sort of way, so that the people beside me handed over a tissue without comment, and now every December we spend a few days searching for music to listen to and twinkly lights to look at, and we send charities money we would have spent on presents, and on Christmas morning we make huevos rancheros, because those take longer than pancakes, and are more festive. Then we go to the neighbors' and give them a jar of homemade apricot jam. They give us toffee, which they cook up a week in advance. There is a very good moment, full of ritual and affection and merriment: We hand over, we receive, we unwrap ceremoniously, we express amazement and delight. Then we clap each other on the back, as though none of us had ever seen gifts so fine, and we walk.
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