1.
A month before Christmas, my grandma falls. The first time it happens, I’m in London. The second time it happens, I’m in London. I call my friend Claire on a walk through Kilburn who says that falling isn’t a unique thing for an old person. It just means that they are dying.
I should note that Claire is French.
2.
My first text is to my baby cousin. She’s 19, but she’s my baby cousin and I’m standing at the Erewhon in Silverlake, picking up a carton of steak. I learned this from my old boss. When Ozempic invaded the psyche of Los Angeles women she had me over for bites of Erewhon steak. As if we were fueling up for war.
“I’m driving up to SF.”
She doesn’t respond. I text her six hours later with a country song about a woman whose lover is in someone else’s bed. She responds.
“Slayyyy.”
3.
Claire is a baker. She sees life as ingredients with outcomes that are controlled by measured actions. I am a writer, who believes that one day I might meet someone who'll prove that every thing I know, is wrong.
4.
Halfway up California, the rain is so strong I can’t see out my front window. I turn off my music and slow down, wondering when it will end. I meet my sister at a hotel in the redwoods, closer to the city. She’s so tired she lets her car run empty of gas.
I’m in bed when my mom texts me. “Are you driving up today? Be careful with the rain!”
5.
We stop by the retirement home on the way to Bolinas. Grandma is happy to see us. I’ve brought felt hearts I sewed in Los Angeles. Each one is a different size and shape and she lets me hang them all over her mantlepiece and tree. We give her a polar bear figurine from London and she names him Winston and kisses him on the lips. She calls our “Airbnb” an “air bomb” and “Prosecco,” “Prochekko.” I leave a felt heart on her front door handle and floating candles in her hallway.
The day after, we go to four different grocers. Pt. Reyes, Bolinas, Fairfax, Ross. My sister is making pork shoulder that nobody has. She's making a galette and she’s making the hand rolls Grandma used to make. I am so tired I forget about gas. I drive with my sister to the station in Pt. Reyes. I fill up a container, putting it between my two feet. I sit in the passenger seat and imagine it blowing my legs up, right there, on the road back to Bolinas.
6.
On Christmas Eve, he walks in and asks me if I am M or S. We’ve been there for five hours by then. He is asking to categorise us. M, or S. He says it again. My baby cousin walks in and asks “who’s that.” I can’t help but laugh. Who’s that. I hide in the kitchen and tell my baby cousin every fucked up thing I’ve done that could make me deserve this.
Grandma says her prayers and he talks over her, saying what an interesting family this is. He gets up from the table to get more champagne. He hasn’t brought anything but himself. Over dessert he asks my baby cousin what she is studying, and he says that he is relieved that she is not studying technology. Technology is ruining the world. Especially, the AI.
My sister asks him who he thinks paid for dinner.
7.
I think of the one before. That NHS doctor, dying now on that same mountain in Umbria. How when I fell down those cement steps in Kentish Town and my whole back swelled up, she said, shh, stop, not now. It was a Sunday and he was home. I put my hand on my back and press against that bump. I think how maybe he wasn’t that bad, after all.
8.
I speak to uncles and cousins and ask them about their travel plans, about their new offices. I think of more questions, and more questions. Another cousin of mine who isn’t here, went to Puerto Rico and the bird sightings were just incredible. I wait for a question myself, and when it does come, it’s my grandmother’s helper, asking who that man was downstairs. He was so rude, that man. She posts a picture of me on her Snapchat. Chin chin.
9.
On Christmas day, I am laying on the sofa when I hear my uncle has said it. M and S ruined Christmas. It was all our fault. Can’t see beyond our own two feet. I sit outside and eat guacamole while the coyotes yell at the full moon. The next day we go back to the retirement home and we write our names on the things we want. Knowing full well we might not get them.
I write my name on the back of a plaque that reads happiness is like a butterfly, the more you chase it, the more it’ll run away. But if you stand still, you might just find it sitting on your shoulder.
M says don’t worry. Nobody will want that one.
When we leave, my grandma asks me to promise I will not resent my uncle. I cross my fingers behind my back. Ok, I say. I promise. She's blind and yet - hold on there. I'm serious.
10.
I’m in London ten days later to shoot a film based on a script I wrote. I stop by the house on the day before filming and there are five women setting up. They take a break and eat bowls of linguini pasta with lemons and cilantro. They make cups of tea and lay out wine glasses and silverware and family photos for the dinner scene.
I bring Tash and when we leave, she says I should be so proud. This is major. We sit in her car in the driveway. Can’t you see? She says. I look at her and nod. Yeah. And then, because we have been best friends for 17 years - you don’t feel it, do you?
11.
It’s like buying a new skirt and a new sweater in the sales after Christmas. Getting dressed and realising that you haven’t washed your tights in days. Holding them up to your nose and wondering if anyone else can tell that underneath all of this, you stink.