christmas on social media
by Swetha Amit
The scent of cinnamon filled my living room. The antique silver cutlery was arranged with precise symmetry on the dining table. Six chairs. Six plates. Six glasses. Six sets of forks, knives, and spoons. Six sets of folded napkins. A bottle of Pinot Noir from Paso Robles rested in the middle. The resplendent Christmas tree in the corner was decorated with gold and colorful candy-stick ornaments and a star on top. I stepped back. A small sigh escaped my lips. The room glowed as Bing Crosby crooned softly from a vintage record player.
I pulled out my phone, captured this perfect setting, and posted it on Instagram with the caption: So excited to host the family this year!” #ChristmasEve #FamilyTraditions. A few likes trickled in— a heart emoji from a friend in my Mahjong group and a fire emoji from another friend with whom I played Bridge. I put my phone on the table and stepped into the kitchen. The golden brown turkey was nestled on a cutting board. The stuffing was ready, and the cranberry sauce was perfectly molded in its crystal dish. The ginger cookies were spread out on a silver tray. I placed them on the table.
6:00 pm.. Dinner time. I opened the front door. The houses in the Palo Alto neighborhood twinkled merrily with holiday lights. Cars were parked on the street. I watched some guests walk up the driveway to my neighbor's house. Their door opened. Shrieks of cheerful Christmas greetings filled the air. Suddenly, I felt cold and hollow. I slammed the door shut. I seated myself at the head of the table. My chair gently scraped the wooden floor. I looked at the five empty chairs around me. Bing Crosby’s smooth baritone occasionally broke the ghostly silence.
6:15 pm. I picked up my phone and rechecked my texts. My sister and her husband got sick with the flu. My two children couldn't fly in from Baltimore due to weather and flight cancellations. My ex-husband suddenly decided he wanted to ski in Tahoe and celebrate alone in the mountains. I refreshed my feeds and saw pictures of happy families and dinner tables full of goodies. I wistfully scrolled through their comments, filled with heart and Christmas tree emojis.
6:30 pm, I took a deep breath. The reality slowly sank in. No one was coming. I had known all along. Yet the charade and performance of what Christmas should be felt necessary. I could visualize the pressure and the consequences if I didn't post anything. I would be subjected to Christmas stories, family drama of gift opening, and gossip. I would be met with pitying looks, throat-clearing, and awkward silences if I had nothing to say or share. No one would know. No one would need to know.
I poured myself a glass of wine and clinked it against an empty glass. My nerves started to relax after a few sips. I grabbed my phone again to take a selfie. The image captured my green dress, which concealed my bulges around my waist, highlighted my gray eyes, my chestnut hair tied in a bun, and my fake smile. This time, I posted it as an Instagram story. I put my phone on the table, picked up a fork and knife, and cut myself a big slice of turkey.
At 7 pm, I felt half full. Some meat remnants had accidentally spilled on the floor. I could clean it up tomorrow. I poured myself more wine. My ex-husband always complained that I drank too much. But he wasn’t here to lecture me on how I was destroying my liver. He wasn’t here to criticize me about being a clumsy eater. He wasn’t here to accuse me of wasting time playing cards and engaging in idle gossip with my girlfriends. I took a deep breath. The lights, the table, the food, the cutlery, and the Christmas tree all blurred into one. The cinnamon scent lingered on. Bing Crosby's voice singing "I'm coming home for Christmas" filled the room. I closed my eyes and found myself swaying to the music. My phone kept buzzing. The digital applause of likes and comments kept trickling in.
Photo of Swetha Amit
BIO: Swetha is an MFA Graduate from the University of San Francisco. The author of a memoir, A Turbulent Mind, and three chapbooks. Her words appear in Had, Bending Genres, Ghost Parachute, Gone Lawn, Cream City Review, and others. A member of the Writers Grotto, her stories have been nominated for the Pushcart Prize, Best of the Net, Best Small Fiction, and Best Microfiction.