Waiting for the Holiday

I watched the cars on the highway while I sat atop the white Cadillac. We were parked on the shoulder with two police cars behind us, and my sister and I had been ordered not to move from the convertible. One smiling policeman stood in front of me trying to tie my undone shoes as I kicked my feet. He looped one bunny through the other while I squirmed.

Here, I am only five. One of my first memories is seeing this policeman tie my shoes while I’m perched atop the car.

I looked at my mother's face. Normally smooth and calm, it was covered in tears, anguish, and a panic that only a mother could know. Nikki and I sat with our mom in the back of one of the police cars as my dad rode in the back of the other. We all cried, for our own reasons. I couldn’t look at my mother and had a funny taste in my mouth, and Nikki cried silently into her seatbelt.

We could’ve talked about it.

The policeman flipped on the radio and changed the station to 100.3. We drove down the same highway, but headed back towards Bloomfield Hills and the comfort of our own home. Christmas music played, and we drove until my mom started to laugh. The day had been gruesome, and she tried singing swaying my sister and me along with her. She made it a point to tell the policeman that even though we were Jewish, we loved Christmas music.

I didn’t feel like singing, but I hummed along to the melody of the music.