In My Pockets.

RHYS BOWEN: Living in California and Arizona I don’t often wear coats. Maybe to a theater or dinner at a restaurant, an early morning hike. So I don’t often clean out coat pockets. They have become, for me, a treasure trove of memories. A couple of weeks ago I put on my puffy jacket for our morning walk. I put my hand into the pocket and it closed around a round, smooth, cool object. I brought it out and it was a perfect white pebble. And I knew instantly where it had come from. I had picked it up on a beach in Cornwall, England. A beach opposite St. Michael’s Mount on a day when we had the best pasties ever and we sat and ate them, still hot, looking at the island and the stream of people walking across to it as the tide came in, knowing soon they would be wading. 

 A whole scene in my mind recreated from one pebble. I suppose that’s what writers try to do—use just the right amount of words to take the reader to Venice or Tuscany or Cornwall and make them feel they are there. 

 This made me go through the rest of my coat pockets to find: a Paris metro ticket, a vaporetto pass from Venice,some shells, and last year’s Nutcracker tickets at the San Francisco Opera house. This evokes a great wave of sadness. I have taken my granddaughters every year since Lizzie was three. I remember that first time so clearly. The other grandma and I had splurged on front row stalls ( now over $1000—mercy me!) Lizzie watched, entranced as the orchestra warmed up. The musicians looked up at her and waved. When the ballet started she sat, transfixed—until the music moved into a minor key. Then she hid under the seat. Especially when the mouse king came. At the end she stood on the steps of the opera house and danced the whole ballet for us. It was enchanting. Everyone passing her was enchanted. 

 A couple of years later her sister Meghan joined us and we have gone every year since. Each year I ask the now college-students “Do you want me to order Nutcracker tickets?” and they look horrified that I should even be saying this and reply “Yes!!!” 

 So this year will be the year of no-Nutcracker. A tradition broken. A holiday with no celebration, which has me wondering what will happen for Christmas. If they have just come home from college will we even be allowed to see them. And it is likely to be too cold and wet to sit outside at distance. I’m trying not to think about Christmas with no family around the table, no laughter at silly games, no Christmas Eve mass with all my favorite carols, no Christmas tea party for my friends. 

I suppose this is how people felt in WWII with their loved ones away overseas—telling themselves that one day it would all be right again. That’s what I’m telling myself now. What did the Jews used to say “Next year in Jerusalem.” I’m saying “Next year at the Nutcracker.” 

What are you going to miss most about this year's holiday season?