Prologue

To Build a Home

It was that time again, Christmas blend time. Even thinking it, Alex felt like a walking cliché.  Every year it was the same, and every year they all fell for it. The multi-colored cries of summer fell away taking their berry smoothies and iced caffeine with it.

A change of seasons: pumpkin.

Pumpkin everything. Chillier breezes and a tornado of individuals and their facebook status’ declaring the season of changing leaves and cashmere scarves as their own.  Starbucks knows this. It’s quite genius, really. Take an entire season, market it to a general population of leggings enthusiasts and boot wearers which simultaneously personalizing it to make them feel as though the pumpkin in their latte was inserted just for them.

A change of seasons: gingerbread.

Orange to red, mustard to pine needles, it becomes Christmas blend time. Much too early in Alex’s opinion, if anyone every asked for it, though only the boy with emerald eyes consistently did. Displays of coffee mugs painted with caffeinated, skating penguins and oval ornaments stacked the shelves before anyone’s thanksgiving turkey began to thaw.  Paper snowflakes and snowman cookies dressed the corporate walls. Trashcans overflowing with cardboard cups emptied of their candied sweetness left with the residue of sticky holiday joy.  The notion of designer-brand coffee thrumos’ underneath the Christmas tree becomes irresistible when paired with biscotti and a bag of fresh grounds wrapped in a gaudy gold ribbon.

The Christmas music already began to blare Burl Ives and Dean Martin as Alex stepped up to the counter to order her cinnamon spice latte.  It was too busy for her to stay, too many people to gawk at.  Too much first-date small-talk she’d be tempted to heckle at.  Too many fake, passing conversations that would bring back the taste of stomach acid and gingerbread in her bitter mouth.  Plus, she was heading home to meet with Marion, her mother. They hadn’t seen each other in eight days, since her mom left for her honeymoon in Jamaica with Gerald.  It was Marion’s third honeymoon, fourth wedding. Alex’s father and Marion never went on a honeymoon, wasn’t common for most 18 year olds with no money and a budding baby of seven months inside the bride’s stomach.

It was a “girls day” as Marion had crooned to Alex two days ago across a crackly phone line. Even through the phone, Alex could hear the after-elation of recent newlywed sex in her mother’s tone. Everything came out with exclamation points, “I can’t wait! You need to see what Gerry bought me! And! What we picked up for you! It’s just marvelous here! All of the little local people are so accommodating!”

This went on for several minutes until finally, “we must have a girls day when I see you again, Alex! I miss my Angel!”

“I miss you too, Mom.”

And she did. Just without the exclamation points.

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