Nochebuena
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**Content warning: sexual content.**
In Spanish, Nochebuena means Christmas Eve. It’s a night where family members gather for a cherished meal. Traditionally, gifts come on January 6, el día de los reyes magos (some know it as Epiphany or Little Christmas): the day the three magi brought gifts to baby Jesus in the manger.
Preparation for Los Reyes — King’s Day — begins the night before. Children leave their shoes outside the front door with straw or carrots for the magi’s camels, donkeys, and horses. Upon awakening the morning of Los Reyes, children find small gifts instead of the straw: chocolate and an orange as a token of thanks from the animals carrying their nobility-bearing givers.
This is different than una noche buena. After a good night, children on Christmas Day morning hope for one thing, stuffed stockings at the fireside and a full gift list bequeathed below a lighted evergreen tree. For adults, una noche buena can mean something entirely different…
***
I heard mumbled conversation downstairs — late — when lights should have been off but weren’t. Instead, a glow came from behind the corner. One more turn down the stairs would expose that I was no longer in bed.
The crack of my door deceived them. Ajar, it was supposed to bring comfort because I had no nightlight. What it did instead was allow those murmurings to rise; the conversation my five-year-old self wasn’t meant to hear.
The glow from behind the corner revealed itself with a sizzle and pop. Sap from the pine kindling sparked in the fireplace. The evergreen pervasive. The aroma meant Santa was on his way.
Instead of a red velvet work-jack lined in ermine, my mother knelt on carpet, bowing before the tree. Their conversation strained as mom seemed to add water in the basin where the trunk was held in place by a rickety tree-holder. My dad hovered in his supervision. His hand wavered like a composer, between index finger and middle flashed the red cherry ash of his Winston Gold.
Laid out on the mantle, my mom’s Dutch Butter Cookies awaited a gift bearing Saint. Cut up carrots, already peeled, seemed to tantalize the reindeers stranded upon our roof, waiting. Folded next to the dessert plate of Christmas Spode, a thank you letter. From whom would it be?
My parents recognized a presence lingering in the hallway, like when you feel someone staring at you from across a room. That gaze makes you lift your head to turn your body and stop mid drag on a cigarette. Or to part those lips just so, before that bitter sip of Chivas Regal Whisky trickles down.
Yes, it was me. Bare-toed, wrinkled nightie, honey-colored hair in a messy nest. Not a nightmare this time, but curiosity.
And then the revelation that ends an innocence through their lie.
Santa would not be eating those cookies, rather my mom’s crumb dotted upper lip mustached the truth.
Santa didn’t lay the big presents below the blue spruce because the packaging tape sat beside my dad’s favorite recliner.
Santa’s quickly scratched note wasn’t written in his hasty script but it was the clear lines of my mother’s hand. The same one that wrote grocery lists.
Instead what arrived that night was not the mythic story but the realization that a white-bearded grandpa figure did not exist. That dream of hoof steps on the roof was really my dog wandering our hardwood floors.
What was laid bare below the tree, wasn’t the gifts tempted for the good girl, all sugar no spice; but my mother bare assed and sprawled, and a randy father saluting her.
Mom turned from her crouch to see my stricken face. “You’re not Santa!” And she picked up her tumbler of Chivas, lifted it to her lips. As she set it down, she stood to reach for the Spode dish. Breasts dangling, she offered with a shrug, “Want a cookie?”
Looking for more Christmas Eve reading? You’ll find plenty here at the MockingOwl Roost.
- Holiday Refrain – Creative Nonfiction
- Running Into Holiday Tradition: Jingle Bell Runs – Fitness for Creatives
- Holiday Delights – Poetry
- A Matter of Tradition – Christmas Essay
- Reindeer – Christmas Humor Fiction
- Weaving Lace – Christmas Poem
- On Patrol – Christmas Poetry
- Chorus of the Waiting – Christmas Eve Speculative Fiction
Shelli Rottschafer
Shelli Rottschafer (she/her/ella) completed her doctorate from the University of New Mexico, Albuquerque (2005) in Latin American Contemporary Literature. From 2006 until 2023 Shelli taught at a small liberal arts college in Michigan as a Spanish Professor. She also holds an MFA in Creative Writing with a concentration in Poetry from Western Colorado University, Gunnison (2025). Now she lives and writes in Colorado and New Mexico with her partner and their rescue pup.
Find more from Shelli on her website.
