Consider this my official apology for what happened during our super special family Christmas celebration last year. I take full responsibility for the events that led to you slipping on the icy roof, for not catching you when you started to slide down the shingles, and for the way your ankle snapped when you landed in the bush. I further apologize for the bush itself, both its placement and the fact that it wasn’t worthy of catching a 185-pound man in a 20-foot freefall. I’m sorry about the eight weeks you spent in the cast and struggling around on crutches. I’m sorry the hallways in the house I bought before we met are too narrow to use two crutches at a time and that you had to jump around on one foot always feeling like you were on the edge of tumbling back to the ground again. I’m sure that was traumatic. I’m sorry I signed your cast in bright green marker when everyone else used black. I’m sorry my message was sappy and full of my love, but also kind of embarrassing to you in front of your friends. I’m sorry Nancy now calls you Snoopykins.

I know it feels like there was a tidal wave of things that conspired together to leave you in both physical and emotional pain, and frustrated at me for all of my above transgressions. But I want you to know two things. First, there is such a thing as just plain, dumb, shitty luck. You don’t have to experience it all the time for it to exist. It can be a momentary thing that never again repeats for the rest of your life. It can come and go, visiting like some aunt who’s not that close, but wants to be. And sometimes it comes in one big cluster of SCREW YOU and messes up your life for a while. I’m sorry you got that kind. But that part is not my fault.

The second thing is, I told you my hands shake. You looked up at our roof and the ones on our street. You made the comparison. Your mind was the one that dwelled on the blinking reds, greens and whites pulsing all around us, the ones that spelled out MERRY CHRISTMAS or took the shape of Santa or a snow man. My brain said, “Oh wow, look at the pretty lights.” Yours said, “Why don’t I have that?” It could have been enough to have the bushes and the front porch decorated, the little fake candles set up in each window. Anyone driving by could see our too-big beautiful tree decked out in the family room. That wasn’t enough for you and only you. No neighbors filed a complaint with the city council or even left a suggestive sticky note on our front door. But your brain got that message.

I didn’t want you to get hurt. I wanted you to be happy. I want you to be happy. I know Christmas is your favorite time of year and I’ve always supported that even though I don’t totally get it. I mean, I love a joyous time and the exploits of jolly fat men. I love cookies and kids singing angelic hymns. But on balance, I admit, I don’t totally get the whole thing in the way you do. I see your eyes light up in that youthful way that adults seldomly are able to still achieve. Most, I imagine, see a Christmas movie or a puppy and think how great it would be to get back to that place. I know you never left it.

When you came home with the 10 boxes of lights and the new ladder because our old one apparently wasn’t trustworthy enough, I could feel your impending joy. I knew you would be proud of whatever you created up on the roof, even if I still thought it unnecessary. I wanted to be part of it in a small way. I wanted you to follow the blueprint in your head and for me to play the role of supervisor who doesn’t really supervise but adds encouragement at every step and occasionally delivers a cup of coffee.

“You’re doing great, babe!” I think I got three or four of those in before things turned south. I’m pretty sure you felt similar sentiments as you climbed up your shiny new rungs, wanting to involve me in this thing of yours even though you knew I didn’t totally believe in it. I love that about you. It would have been so easy to say, “Oh no, I’ll take care of it. Please just go inside and watch a show or something.” You could have insisted I stay warm and cozy and maybe even bake some cookies for us to enjoy afterward. But no. Your heart invited me in.

Suddenly there I was, standing next to you asking for the tenth time if I should be worried about what seemed to me to be a roof with a sketchy level of iciness. You assured me we were fine, that you had specifically picked out for yourself and recommended for me just the right footwear and gloves with some stickiness on the palms. “You’ll feel more comfortable the longer we’re up here,” you assured me. And you were right. After five minutes, I was like one of those mountain goats that can scale a cliff on nothing more than rock ledges the size of pennies. When you handed me the staple gun and proposed that I attach a string of lights you would be holding, I initially felt confident. I felt reinforced by your energy and that you seemed to not question for a second that I could do it. But as you started to put the string in place, I felt it. “My hands shake,” I told you. It’s not necessarily from the cold, but being in those conditions makes it far worse. You didn’t say a word, just gave me a dismissive hand wave. While my confidence started to dive, yours never wavered.

“Hold still,” I ordered, as if you were the problem.

“I am still,” you told me.

The gust of wind didn’t help, and for a second I became very aware of my footing again. But I saw the gleam in your eyes, the finished product already there even though we still had a lot of work to do. So I went for it. You held that string of lights so straight and perfect, and my hand was the opposite. I had the perfect view, looking straight down my arm like the barrel of a sniper rifle. The target dot swung and swayed like the neighbor’s blow-up Frosty as the breeze continued to assault the neighborhood. I missed. You sighed for a second. Just one little slip that showed the frustration you had probably been hiding since I questioned your dream of joining in the yuletide illumination festivities.

“I’m sorry,” I said. My confidence had fallen to zero.

“It’s okay,” you reassured, as you pushed forward with loving me the way you do.

That’s when you tried to readjust the string, get it ready for another shot. That’s when it slipped out of your hand and onto the roof, sitting there so peacefully on the toes of your boots. That’s when I saw the work you’ve been putting in at the yoga studio, the way you bent over so smoothly, knees barely bending as you folded yourself in half. That’s when your left shoe gave way first, followed quickly by the right and your hands slammed to the shingles seeking some kind of traction. I barely had a chance to blink between the sound of your knees hitting the roof and the metal crinkling of your body going over the gutter and into the night.

I didn’t know what to do when you hit the bush. It didn’t sound that bad. Or at least, not as bad as if you had smacked onto the driveway. Or the car. All I wanted to know was if you were okay, but also, I didn’t want to go on the same ride. You probably couldn’t hear over your own heavy breathing and the occasional grunt of pain how I tip-toed to the roof edge and made my way down the ladder, which I do admit is much nicer and feels more solid than the old one. The fact that you were still lying there when I eventually made it down made my “Are you okay” a pretty stupid question. You told me it was. That was the first thing you said. But tell me, what was I supposed to say? Should I have told you that was a totally crazy thing that just happened? That your ankle looked like it had been bent by a giant you owed money to? That your eyes still looked beautiful in the lights that surrounded you? You would have hated anything I said.

I tried my best to support you during your recovery and to make it up to you in any small way. Remember how I cooked all your favorite foods and you refused to eat them? Think about how that made me feel. You didn’t have to keep punishing me. Obviously I had regrets and I didn’t want you to feel bad. Why did you wish that on me, the person you love? Eventually you started to come around, or at least I have perceived less open hostility from you. But that’s not enough for me. I want to go back to that moment I climbed up the ladder, when we both gave the other person the benefit of the doubt and went a little over to the other side. I want those good feelings and that goodwill between us again.

I checked the weather report this morning. High temperature today is 46. No wind. I even set up the ladder and went up for a quick inspection. We probably need to clean the gutters at some point, but the shingles are dry. The staple gun is refilled. I plugged in all ten strings of lights and, no surprise since we didn’t ever use them last year, they work perfectly. There is a pot of coffee hot and ready for dispensing in our favorite outside mugs. Only two of our neighbors have their lights up already.            

Try again?

This story first appeared in The Climax, a collection of contest winners published by From Whispers to Roars literary magazine