Sweet Elixir of Life
By Alyson Brown
It was my first time at a Christmas party, and I didn’t want to embarrass her. We rehearsed line after line of polite speech in the car: “Yes, miss.” “No, miss.” “Thank you.” “No, thank you.” She was always picky about that sort of thing. A couple of children came barreling toward us when we walked through the door. She leaned over and whispered, “Don’t act like you have no training. Stay close to me and behave.” I was always close to her, right under her arm. I guess that’s just how we moved, as one. Together. Like a newborn, or a parasite, I was a part of her as she was a part of me.
The driveway was packed, but not as packed as the house. The inside was elaborately decorated with fake Christmas trees and empty cardboard boxes wrapped to look like gifts. It would have looked like a Hallmark movie if not for the people trying to find a space for themselves in every corner. It was a short night filled with: “Good evening.” “Yes, miss.” “No, miss.” “Thank you.” “No, thank you.” I did my best to maintain a good impression, but I’m sure no one could hear me due to my face being pressed against my mother’s back. I don’t know whether it was annoyance that led her to place me on the sofa with the other children or pity for my lack of friends. Either way, it didn’t matter. I nearly broke my neck trying to keep my eye on her all night.
After an hour or two, we were presented with small cups filled with a deep red juice: sorrel. The other children took their places on the stiff sofa cushions and breathed down the bittersweet liquid. Afraid of appearing odd, I took a great gulp. I regretted it. The syrup felt like a thirty-pound weight on my tongue, and the sugar did nothing to tame the bitter flavor scratching my throat. I looked up to see the beautiful sight of disgusted expressions and pursed lips. My mother also noticed the all too familiar faces of unhappy children, and with one stare we knew we had no choice but to continue drinking.
I worked up the courage to talk to the other kids, and we pretended to be like the grown-ups surrounding us. Who in our world sipped liquor and pretended to like it? The heavy spices tickled our throats, but as the night drew on, the bitter syrup carried a sense of ease to the group. I must have sipped and chatted my way through five glasses when my mother grabbed my hand, signaling it was time to go home. I stumbled out of the house with a tingling tongue and sticky red lips. Maybe liquor wasn’t so bad?
As time passes, people outgrow many things, such as clothes, friendships, or a small apartment. For me, it was children. Christmas dinners became commonplace at my house; therefore, it was also common for smaller members of my family to be there as well. My baby cousin’s catchphrase became “Auntie Aly, lift me!” I’d usually decline and leave her and the others to their own devices. Once you lift one, you need to lift them all. While they ran around, I quietly took my spot at the dining table—the grown-up’s table. As the eldest child, it might’ve been my duty to keep an eye out for the younger ones, but my eyes were drawn solely to the adults draped gracefully across their chairs.
It’s not hard to feel inadequate. From their off-limits conversations to fancy wine glasses and sophisticated clothing, adults are the epitome of class and style. In an attempt to look grown up, I wore an ill-fitting sweater dress, clunky heeled boots, and a hand-me-down necklace. I did get a lot of compliments for my attire that evening. However, none was the one I was looking for: “You’re so sweet.” “Where did your mom buy this dress?” “Don’t your ankles hurt in those tall heels?” (They were two inches.) “You look just like my little girl!” I wanted to look mature, not cute. Fortunately, the comments ceased during dinner.
After an hour of sitting at the table, the food was ready, and one by one, my mother poured a serving of sorrel for every single person. She had spent the entire day simmering it to perfection. Now was my chance. My opportunity to showcase my maturity. That bitter syrup from childhood wouldn’t best me today. I waited with baited breath as I held out my wine glass and watched the surprisingly sweet-smelling elixir dance in the crystal. After one final sniff, I took a sip only to be met with a burning sensation. The juice I had become accustomed to transformed into a tart, albeit sweet, liquid fire. The half-empty rum bottle on the counter looked at me jeeringly as I attempted to stifle my coughs.
That was my third glass in two hours. The warm air was flush with the cinnamon and spices. A large pot was simmering in the kitchen. “You sure you put rum in this?” “Yes, ma’am!” My mother pursed her lips and took another sip. “It’s kind of fresh still.” My sister and I chuckled at her teasing. Shredded wrapping paper littered the carpet like snow, and the stack of presents we may or may not have wanted was our snowman. I was draped over her legs in my pajamas as we watched another generic, unfunny Christmas movie.
My sister shouted at the TV, “Why would you leave your six-figure job for a stupid country boy?” I nearly dropped my glass.
“Do you even like Hallmark movies?” I asked, but was met with her noncommittal shrug.
We spent the rest of the night like this, lying in our pajamas, our bodies hiding under the blankets in the living room. My hair was a mess, almost as big of a mess as the dirty dinner plates littering the dining table. The only items missing from the table were the crystal glasses, the same glasses that currently sit comfortably in our hands. Pour after pour, we emptied the jug of sorrel. Our eyes were drawn to the meet-cute of our movie, and my mom sank deeper into the chair.
“Well, I don’t care if they’re stupid, I like them.”
“You complain about them all the time!”
She quickly shushed me.
“Do you think we’ll get an all-Black Hallmark movie?”
My sister laughed, “Please, they just found out that Asians exist last week—”
“Hey! I liked that one!”
“Aly! Check in the kitchen if you see more sorrel.” I was booted from the cuddle pile into the icy tundra that was our home. I searched the kitchen for another jug but to no avail. The pot on the stove wasn’t ready yet, and the countless empty Swiss Miss packets were a clear sign that we’d be drinking water for the rest of the night. With a heavy heart, I rejoined the group. It was an agonizing ten seconds before my mom perked up.
“There’s a jug in the pantry!” We later found out that the jug was meant for a church function, but until then, I poured everyone a glass and melted into my family’s embrace. It was Christmas time in my house. I was comfortable like this, wrapped in their sweaty arms, with no pretense or expectation to distract me from my need for another drink.
FALL 2025
Illustrations were done in collaboration with the New Media Artspace at Baruch College. The New Media Artspace is a teaching exhibition space in the Department of Fine and Performing Arts at Baruch College. Housed in the Newman Library, the New Media Artspace showcases curated experimental media and interdisciplinary artworks by international artists, students, alumni, and faculty. Special thanks to docent Delilah Medina for creating artwork for this piece.
Visit the New Media Artspace at http://www.newmediartspace.info/