Christmas Day dawns sunny and dry. Through the window above where I lay, wedged under George’s sleep-heavy muscle and meat, I see the top of the V of palm trees that mark the entrance to O’Donnell from the quad against a square of cloudless blue. There are no festive lights on these trees, no snow falling scenically behind them.
Here in George’s musty, messy room, there’s no sign of Santa—no stockings have been hung, no presents have been left, there’s no ornamented tree to leave them under. There’s no Christmas music, none of my mom’s traditional scratch-baked cranberry-cinnamon rolls. There are no relatives, there will be no church.
It’s the best Christmas ever.
This is the first morning I’ve ever woken up next to anybody. The first time that my wildest fantasies, of great malleable h
