Christmas Eve

When I was little, all I wanted to be was bigger.  So I asked my dad to help me.  He would always lift me high above his head and rest me on his massive shoulders.  My sister and I used to both fit, one on each side, but she got bigger than me and we had to part.  The shoulders were all mine.  Eventually, I, too, got too big just to fit on one shoulder so I would sling one of my tiny legs over his head to the other side.  It was quite the accomplishment if I could manage to get that leg to my dad’s other shoulder without his help.  My muscles strained to lift it high enough but once I got there, I would wrap my hands around his forehead and clasp them tight, right on his thick eyebrows. Then, I could rest my chin on top of his head and enjoy the smell of his shampoo with half of my face buried in coarse, black hair.  When he was tired of being my stallion, my dad would walk to a soft place, a couch or a bed, and plop me down. I remember the anticipation I felt when I noted his path to the furniture. I knew what came next- tickles. Dad never grew his beard out too long and he could never completely shave the thick hairs for a smooth face.  I liked that. When I lay dazed on the couch he would grab my feet and rub his scruffy chin on them.  He made a great tickle monster. Only the best could entice the shrill squeals and innocent laughter that ensued.  Only he.

Who knew the same man could turn the special savory taste of Herbed Peasant Bread, left over in my mouth from Christmas Eve dinner, sour. Instead of being tossed on the bed with giggles and smiles I decide to lie underneath it, my quivering lip fighting back wretched sobs in vain.  Finally, I have stopped trying to fit on his shoulders.