Christmas: The Season of Sharp Things
December shows up grinning like your ex at the lawyer's office—all teeth, no warmth, and you just know something expensive is about to happen. The whole month struts around in its Sunday best, but honey, we both know what's underneath. It's eleven months of resentment dressed up in garland. A pressure cooker somebody tied a bow on.
Let me tell you what Christmas really is: it’s handing everybody weapons and then acting shocked when someone finally uses one. Light strands pulled tight as piano wire. Carving knives fresh from the sharpener. Icicles hanging like God’s own stilettos. Even that angel on top of the tree looks like she’s been plotting since last January. But nobody notices because they’re too busy pretending cousin Leroy didn’t steal grandma’s ring and sell it for poker money.
Know what's funny? Families spend all year dodging each other's calls, then December says "gather 'round" and suddenly everyone's grinning at each other, passing the potatoes while quietly passing judgment. Old grudges show up wearing new sweaters. That divorce nobody mentions? It's sitting right there between the green beans and the ham. Pour enough wine over that spread and watch what bubbles up. Go on. I'll wait.
And the costumes! Lord, the costumes December gives people. Santa's suit might be the best alibi ever invented—try picking him out of a lineup after three eggnogs. "Was it the fat man in red?" "Which one, officer? There were twelve." Everyone gets permission to play pretend in December. Sometimes what they're pretending is that they didn't put something extra in your cocoa.
Truth is, Christmas has always had a dark side. Not the Hollywood kind with monsters and mayhem, but the quiet, human kind. The pressure to be grateful when you're grieving. To forgive while the knife's still in your back. To hug the very person who ruined your credit. December magnifies what's missing—that's its real trick. It tells you to come together, then spotlights every empty chair.
Loneliness hits different when the whole world insists you shouldn't feel it. Grief shows up uninvited, pulls up a seat at your table, pours itself a drink from your best bottle. You set a place without meaning to because tradition has long arms and the dead have longer memories. The carols play on repeat, but all you hear is the silence underneath—the friend who stopped calling, the soldier who didn't make it home, that apartment across the courtyard with one curtain drawn, just one, like someone left in a hurry.
Walk down any street in late December and you'll see it. Colored bulbs straining to outshine the shadows. Strangers smiling like they mean it. Everyone pretending while something cold walks beside them. December breeds a particular desperation—bills piling up like snow, promises you can't keep, expectations you can't meet. A person who'd walk away in July starts thinking thoughts in December. Someone who'd normally keep their mouth shut gets loose-lipped after the third rum ball.
All those twinkling lights trying so hard to distract from what’s really going on. Reba’s husband didn’t “go visit his mother”—his Lexus has been parked outside that apartment complex every night since Thanksgiving. The Johnsons aren’t “renovating”—that’s a divorce, sweetie. But everyone keeps smiling because that’s what December demands. Smile while you drown. It’s festive.
The thing is, December makes people desperate and stupid. Bills stacked higher than the presents nobody can afford. Promises nobody intended to keep. That one relative who always has a "business opportunity" and just needs a small loan until New Year's. Mix that with forced family time and watch the chemistry happen. Someone who'd walk away in July starts thinking thoughts in December. Someone who'd normally keep their mouth shut gets loose-lipped after the third rum ball.
And all those things that go with Christmas, to certain people with certain people, those things can be so convenient. Eggnog. Love eggnog. I’m told it’s sweet than anti-freeze. Add enough rum and you won’t even smell the almonds. And that fireplace. So romantic. And so ready to burn whatever needs burning. Then there’s the snow. Hmm. Snow. So beautiful in how it covers everything. Sort of functional in that way, too. Even the chaos helps—house full of drunk relatives, each one swearing they saw you somewhere you weren't. Who's going to sort that out? Not the cops. They're busy with all the other December disasters.
It’s really amazing, isn’t it? How December makes people sentimental and reckless at the same time. Like tequila, but with wreaths. Those long nights give folks time to marinate in their grievances. Remember when Sharon "accidentally" When Tom borrowed your car and brought it back with that mysterious dent? Well, December remembers. December's been keeping receipts all year.
And then the relatives arrive like a plague of locusts with luggage. That sister who judges your parenting? She’s here. The brother who still owes you two grand? Here. Your mother-in-law who’s never liked you? Settling in till New Year’s. Pour another drink. You’re going to need it.
We crime writers, we know the smile that costs too much to maintain. We understand that everyone's got a secret, is wearing a mask—it's just that some are more lethal than others. Every killer I ever wrote acted normal right up until they didn't. And December? Baby, December is thirty-one days of "act normal" while the whole family's one burnt ham away from complete chaos.
And everyone’s watching everyone else. Keeping score. That cousin who got the bigger gift. That aunt who got the better compliment. The teenager who knows exactly what her stepdaddy was doing in the garage with the neighbor’s wife but hasn’t decided what that information’s worth yet. It’s a whole month of folks holding loaded guns and calling it “family tradition.”
And all those things that go with Christmas? To certain people with certain ideas, those things can be mighty convenient. Eggnog. Love eggnog. I’m told it’s sweeter than anti-freeze. Add enough rum and you won’t even smell the almonds. And that fireplace? So romantic. And so ready to burn whatever needs burning. Then there’s the snow. Hmm. Snow. So beautiful in how it covers everything. So useful that way, too. Even the chaos helps—a house full of drunk relatives. Alibi, sweet alibi. Count on ‘em to swear they saw you somewhere you weren't. Who’s going to sort that out? Not the cops. They’re busy with all the other December disasters.
Some call it the season of peace. Sure, honey. And I’m the Ghost of Christmas Past. It’s the season when everybody’s one wrong word away from saying what they really think. When the decorations can’t hide what’s been rotting underneath all year. When somebody finally notices the nativity scene’s got one too many wise men and one too few wives who are done with everybody’s nonsense.
So peace on earth. Good will toward men. But keep one eye on the kitchen knives and another on the relatives who smile too much. December's got a way of bringing out the worst in folks, then wrapping it in paper so pretty you almost don't notice until it's too late.
After all, there's a reason they call it the dead of winter.
—Walker
P.S. By the way, I’ve got a little story for you. It's about a ham, some heart medication, and why you should never take a good cook for granted. Marion Richardson would like a word. "Burnt Ham" awaits—but maybe not right before dinner.
