My two teenaged sisters, along with the neighborhood kids, arrive from church in time for our Noche Buena, literally "good night". It has been a family tradition, as is the custom in the predominantly Catholic country, for us to partake of a midnight snack to celebrate the birthday of Jesus Christ.
The table is already set, plates and cups, spoons and forks. The children are excited to have Noche Buena with us. There is a whole leg of ham that has been partly carved by my father, a large platter of spaghetti with corned beef sauce (my father's specialty) sprinkled on top with grated Kraft cheese, fried hot dogs and sausages, sliced queso de bola or cheese ball imported from the Netherlands, hot chocolate, Coke and Mirinda orange soft drinks, and the children all clap as I take out the large ice cream cake from the freezer. The children eat as if they are in a marathon, their eyes surveying each other, keeping track of how many hot dogs Joey has already eaten, or how big Edna would bite her ham. They all laugh as Alex pushes food inside his mouth with one hand while the other reaches for something else on the table. My sisters and our father fuss over the children while we sip our hot chocolate, while painfully conscious that one person is missing from the table. You see, our mother passed away eleven months ago, a few weeks after last Christmas. My sisters and I have continued our mother's practice of giving food to the neighborhood children, especially those from the farthest end of the street, children who are less fortunate, who would otherwise not have the same food we eat. Ever since my older brother and I had a job, our Christmas table fares have gotten better, especially that a number of our clients would shower us at the office with a lot of gifts of food.
This year, we also have started a tradition with the neighbors' kids, the ones from the three other houses in our compound of four, which we call "monito, monita" or kris kringle. Earlier in the week, we put our names in a container and each had to draw a name. Then we have to buy two gifts, one for the name drawn, and one for the person who draws our name. The gift for the former should cost a little bit more. You can imagine all of the younger kids wishing for their names to be drawn by me. But it doesn't matter, as I would give everyone a small gift anyway, mostly a small envelope with five pesos or ten pesos inside it.
Christmas Past 4. I am 38 years old.
I am alone in my apartment this Christmas Eve. I have set up on my glass top dining table my new china. Two place settings. I pour hot chocolate on my cup and open the small box of sugar dusted doughnuts which I have bought earlier from an Asian doughnut shop I have accidentally found on Sherbourne. The doughnuts remind me of my mother, of a time when she and I were walking along a tree-lined street on our way home from visiting my aunt. We had stopped at a store to buy sugar dusted doughnuts and we ate them as we walked.
I place a single doughnut on her plate and I eat mine with the hot chocolate. It is cold outside, I can tell by the heavy smokes coming from the chimneys of nearby homes and stacks from the taller buildings. The edges of the glass doors to my patio are etched with thin ice that sparkle as the lights from the Christmas tree reflect on them. I wonder if my mother's soul or spirit can be present when she has never been to Canada herself. But we had always believed that spirits can fly to anywhere. My sister Lengleng who lives with her family down at Coxwell in the east end does not like this idea for she is acutely afraid of ghosts.
The telephone rings several times -- friends calling to greet Merry Christmas. My brother who lives in Chicago with his family call as well. I tell him about the doughnuts and he, too, does not like the idea that my mother's spirit would come and visit me, because it would mean that she could visit him in Chicago as well. He tells me, "Tell her I live in Florida."
"You're a nincompoop," I tell him.
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