***

The “forgotten passenger” is a reminder that absence is not always loss—it may instead create space for independence, joy, and balance within family life.

***

🎄 The Forgotten Passenger

By Harry Arabian

The Saturday after Thanksgiving always felt like the real start of Christmas. Thanksgiving was for turkey and family stories, but Saturday? Saturday was for deals, discounts, and the unofficial holiday tradition of early shopping—at least, that’s how my parents saw it.

At seventy, my mother and father still approached this day as if they were veterans gearing up for battle. They left early in the morning, bundled up in coats, hats, and gloves, armed with shopping lists and coupon booklets. They taped a note in the middle of the bathroom mirror before leaving:

“Pick us up at 1 p.m. – Downtown Crossing.”

It was written in my father’s blocky script, circled twice for emphasis. Subtlety wasn’t his style.

At 11 a.m., I noticed the note while brushing my teeth. “All right,” I thought, “plenty of time.” I had more than two hours to get myself together. I should’ve known better than to be smug about timing during the holiday season.

By noon, I was on the road. The city was alive with shoppers spilling in and out of stores, arms loaded with bags, while traffic crawled as if every driver was in a holiday parade of their own. My patience wore thinner with every red light, but by 12:55 I had maneuvered through the mess and pulled up near our usual pick-up spot.

Except this year, there was a problem.

The curb was cordoned off, barricaded for the afternoon holiday parade. A marching band tuned up in the distance, horns blaring test notes into the cold air. People were already lining the sidewalks, eager for the festivities. My usual spot was gone.

Still, I spotted my father standing nearby, surrounded by towers of bags and boxes. He waved like a man stranded on a desert island spotting a rescue ship.

I rolled down the window. “Dad!”

“There you are!” He hustled over, puffing hard, dragging two shopping bags while balancing a box under his arm. “Pull closer! Quick before someone takes the spot.”

I eased the car up as best I could without risking a horn-blasting from the cars behind me. Dad shoved the bags into the back seat, grunted, and climbed into the passenger seat, slamming the door. “Go, go, go!” he said, as if we were in a getaway car after a bank heist.

Relieved, I pulled away from the curb.

It was only after we’d gone a block that Dad shifted in his seat, adjusting a box that had landed on his lap, and asked, almost casually:
“Where’s your mother?”

I didn’t even hesitate. “In the back seat.”

He twisted around, peered into the back, and barked, “No, she isn’t!”

I glanced in the mirror. Empty.

For one frozen moment, we both sat in silence, the truth sinking in: we had forgotten my mother in the middle of Downtown Crossing.

I jerked the car into the nearest spot I could find—five-minute parking in front of CVS. “Stay here,” I told him. “I’ll go back.”

Dad didn’t argue. He just sat there, clutching his bags, eyes wide, muttering something about football and how he never should’ve agreed to come shopping in the first place.

The sidewalk was packed, but I charged into the crowd—dodging strollers, sidestepping spectators, and muttering “sorry, excuse me, pardon me” like a broken record. My father would’ve called it a “human cattle drive.”

At last, I spotted her.

There she was, right at the old pick-up spot, not upset, not even looking around for me—instead, she was clapping, laughing, and cheering at the marching band as they paraded by in crisp uniforms. A row of trumpets blasted a bright tune, and she swayed to the beat like a teenager.

“Mom!” I shouted over the drums. “We forgot you—come on, let’s go!”

She turned, smiled, and waved me off, as though I had interrupted her favorite movie. “Don’t worry, son. I’ll take the subway home.”

“Subway? I’ve got the car right here!”

“I know, but I want to stay a while. The parade is wonderful. Besides, your father is probably anxious to get home to his football.” She winked. “Go on—he doesn’t like missing kickoff.”

There was no convincing her. She was happy, enjoying herself, and the subway would indeed take her straight home. I sighed, promised I’d see her later, and began weaving my way back to the car.

Sure enough, when I returned, my father was no longer in the passenger seat.

Instead, he was at the CVS parking booth, locked in a heated debate with the attendant about whether we had exceeded the “five minutes” limit. His voice carried even over the parade music.

“I’ve been here three minutes, tops!” he barked. “Three minutes and thirty seconds is still under five!”

The attendant, unimpressed, tapped the sign with his pen. “Five minutes means five minutes, sir. You’re already pushing it.”

I walked up, holding back a laugh. “Dad, let’s go. Mom’s staying to watch the parade.”

He spun toward me, exasperated. “What do you mean she’s staying? She was supposed to come home with us!”

“She’s fine. She’s taking the subway. She said you’d rather get back for football anyway.”

He blinked, caught between frustration and relief, then grumbled, “Well, she’s not wrong about the football.” He handed the parking stub back to the attendant with a dramatic sigh. “Fine. Let’s get home.”

I helped him back into the car, loaded with bags that seemed to multiply with every movement. As we pulled away, the sound of drums and trumpets faded behind us, replaced by Dad’s ongoing commentary on referees, missed calls, and the state of the game he was already anticipating.

For the rest of the afternoon, I could not shake the image of my mother—bundled in her winter coat, standing on the curb with a smile, clapping along to the music as though nothing in the world mattered except the parade. Dad would have his football, she would have her parade, and somehow, I ended up in the middle of it all—chauffeur, referee, and reluctant participant in the holiday chaos.

And maybe, in its own chaotic way, that was the perfect beginning to our Christmas season.