You Can't Find What Isn't There

I was running today and listening to podcasts, like I do.  And like I do, I allowed my mind to wander all over the place, the drone of the spoken words fading in and out of my attention, though they were always in the background as I dashed through the park. I was vaguely aware I was listening to This American Life, and people telling stories about Christmas. As I was careening down a steep hill, my attention was caught by a man talking about throwing horse manure onto his roof.

The story evolved into a sweet tale about how Christmas rituals had evolved with his wife and continued as their daughter was born and grew, and how these rituals had affected him.  The story had me captivated as the man's words described such a perfect imperfect family and captured the intense but soft, steady, low hum of his love for them.

Of course I cried my eyes out.  I choked through my sobs, thinking how incredible it was that this man was in the world.  How amazing, how hope-inspiring, that a woman and a little girl could bring so much joy into his life.  I wished my dad had found that kind of joy in me and my sister and our mother. I wished that I had ever been courted by a man who appeared to have the capacity for this kind of love. I have suspected that it exists and I have seen evidence and heard hearsay that men can love to this extent and want a simple, happy life of laughing and silly rituals and intense but soft, steady low-hum love.  Yes, I had seen evidence, but I have also seen so much evidence to the contrary that I can only believe this kind of man is some sort of legend whispered among women who want badly for it to be true, like UFO sighters or Yeti search parties.  And yet here, talking through my earbuds in a matter-of-fact masculine voice, was the Yeti himself telling me how content he is stringing popcorn while his wife and daughter decorate a Christmas Tree.

The story came to a close, and Ira Glass came on the air and mentioned the story was fiction.*

I stopped running, gasped for a breath, and then after a few moments of horror, I cried even harder.



*"The H Street Sledding Record" by Ron Carlson.