Rockefeller Center

Dear Dad,

For the first ten years of G3’s life, you took him to Rockefeller Center around Christmas time to see the tree. Then, COVID shut everything down and you died, so the last two years we didn’t go. G3 always enjoyed that trip, in part I think, because you spoiled him. This year, he asked if we could go again. Of course Mom said yes, even though I suspected the trip would make her sad. And it was hard. Your absence felt like weights strapped to my legs, weights that slowed me down and made everything feel like it was happening underwater. More than once I caught myself on the verge of crying and I had to fight back the tears because I didn’t want to upset Mom, or have G3 laugh at me. 

We left the house early and as we were walking to the bus stop, part of my brain kept expecting you to catch up to us. So many times, you would tell us to go ahead. Mom’s bad leg made walking difficult even before you died, and so you would tell us to get started and you’d lock up the house. By the time we walked a half a block we’d hear your footsteps behind us. I kept waiting to hear you, even though I knew it was impossible. 

When we got to Manhattan I felt lost. I know my way around the city. I lived there in college. But every Christmas season, you led the way. All we had to do was follow. But without you there, leading fell to me, and even though it wasn’t difficult, it felt wrong. I felt displaced. 

The tree was pretty, as it always is, although the branches were sparse. And the decorations surrounding the ice skating rink were different. There used to be giant wooden soldiers lining the street, but they weren’t there this year. They were replaced by tiny wooden huts. G3 had wanted to go to lunch at the restaurant you often took us to, but when I looked for it online I couldn’t find it. It shouldn’t have been hard, and I was frustrated. I ended up making reservations elsewhere, but I promised G3 that when we got to the city we’d go downstairs, find the restaurant, and make a note of its name. We did as I promised, but the restaurant wasn’t there. In fact, much had changed. Many of the restaurants were different. It was as if we had entered a time warp—which, in essence, I guess we had considering COVID and our two year absence—or a portal to a different dimension in the multiverse. 

St. Patrick’s Cathedral hadn’t changed much. As always, G3 wanted to light candles, but his enthusiasm wasn’t the same as it used to be, probably because he is older. Or maybe because his relationship with religion changed after you died. We stopped at the Creche and we thought of you and how you always liked the fact that it was the only nativity scene that included a golden retriever. Again, as we walked through the cathedral, I kept waiting for you to show up. It was irrational, but it was like my brain just refused to accept the fact that you weren’t with us.

We ate lunch at Bill’s Bar and Burger. I made reservations there because it’s where we ate the last year we went to Rockefeller Center with you. You had tried that December to make reservations where we usually ate, but the restaurant was closed for a private event. The burgers weren’t as good as we remembered. However, G3 really liked the loaded nachos. He enjoyed them so much he scraped the plate clean. 

The Lego store was our final stop. You always took G3 to the Lego store so that he could pick out a Christmas present. Every year, except the last one because G3 had lost interest in Legos. We thought he had outgrown them, but then you died, and suddenly, all he wanted to do was put Lego sets together again. I still think it’s because Legos remind him of you, and when he puts them together he remembers all the hours the two of you spent with each other. Legos are his way of keeping some connection to you alive. But the Lego store moved. It felt as if nothing wanted to be what it was when you were alive. For a moment, when we realized the store wasn’t where it had always been, we panicked. Mom had promised G3 he could pick out a Lego set and G3 would have been disappointed to go home without one. Then I reached for my phone and Googled it. Luckily, it hadn’t closed, it had just moved around the corner. 

The Home Alone Lego set is not cheap. Yet, it’s the one set G3 really wanted. He has been talking about it for months now. I told him it was too expensive and he should pick out something else. Mom, however, told him if he really wanted it she would get it for him. I have not seen him that happy, that excited over anything in a really long time. He even hugged Mom—in public. That’s how happy he was.

Today, we were supposed to make Christmas cookies. Your last Christmas, the cookie press you had since before I was born stopped working well. The end kept popping off and the cookies were pressing out in blobs instead of the proper Christmas shapes. You had looked online for a new press—we both did—but you couldn’t find anything that looked like it was well made, something that would be durable. As a result, you decided to wait to replace the one you had. Last year, I fought with it so much that in frustration I threw it away after we made cookies. I had meant to replace it, but I forgot until early this month. Without time to go to an actual store, I needed to order one online. I still wasn’t pleased with what I found, but I had to get something so I ordered a press that, according to the reviews, didn’t look terrible. Well, the reviews were wrong. The damn thing didn’t work. I wanted to cry. We salvaged the batch as best we could by breaking off tiny bits of dough, rolling them into balls, and pressing them flat, but it wasn’t the same. Instead of making multiple batches as we originally intended, we only made one. Hopefully, I’ll be able to find a better press for next year.

I miss you!