Author Archives: Alan Ilagan

The idea of a solo Holiday Stroll was formulating in my head as I stood in the cold wind outside Fanueil Hall. What, after all, was the point of traditions? Why did it feel important to maintain them? In some way, it was one of the only things of reassurance in a year that found nothing assured or safe. There was comfort in tradition, but maybe coming out of one’s comfort zone was the only way to grow and evolve. I still wasn’t sold on the idea of carrying this one on solely for the sake of tradition; I also wasn’t against ending this still bit of holiday folklore I’d created so many years ago and starting over, or not starting again at all. Some endings should stand on their own. I resumed my solitary walking, nearing a lone bull market stand where sausage sandwiches were being assembled, and the aroma of peppers and onions smoldering beside them made for a deliciously cozy smell at the late lunch hour. Music played from the proprietor’s phone, and though the song that was playing, ‘Fire and Rain’ by James Taylor, had never been a favorite of mine, today I listened, and it spoke in a new way, opening up like classic songs tend to do when you are ready to receive them.

I’ve seen fire and I’ve seen rain
I’ve seen sunny days that I thought would never end
I’ve seen lonely times when I could not find a friend
But I always thought that I’d see you again

In that moment, the grayish sky began dropping large but mercifully-spaced-out snowflakes, more pretty than menacing, more beautiful than annoying, at least at this initial stage. Our very first Holiday Stroll happened on a snowy morning of similar loveliness, and suddenly it struck me how close the word ‘loveliness’ is to ‘loneliness’.

My mind travels back to that snowy stroll through the Boston Public Garden with Kira, and as snowflakes instantly melt into tears on my eyelashes, I understand that I carry her with me. More snowflakes fall into my hair – silver piling upon silver, simultaneously stinging and tickling when they reach skin. Hastening my steps, I pass the building I used to work in, and those hilarious days of retail flood forth from the memory bank, along with the years of finding solace in my retail family – Barrie, Suzie, John, Ginette, Spencer, Jose, Ola, Simon, and Kim – all of them come rushing back. At a time when I felt out of place at school, they gave me one of my first glimpses of what it was like to be accepted, and adored, for being nothing but myself. My own family hadn’t always made me feel like that, and to find it with people who started as strangers was somehow more poignant. It brought back the upstate New York retail family – Dawn and Matt and John and Justin – and I realized I carried them with me too. Memories of my John Hancock office job – with JoAnn, Kira, Tamekia, and Bettina – and the whole microfiche community crossed my mind, and my last long-term love in Boston – Paul – and our time together, reminded me that even absent, they were a part of this.

Nearing the front entry of Faneuil Hall, I recalled the side-splittingly funny episode Skip and I shared listening to a man sing a rather catchy song about diarrhea – and all the riotously comical BroSox Adventures rushed into my mind – as did a stormy but sweet night with Sherri and their kids at the Boston condo. I thought then of my current co-workers, and the friend who brought me into my longest office home – Marline – as she and Gretchen had seen ‘Plaza Suite’ in Boston (a show we were scheduled to see just as COVID hit)- and more co-workers past and present who have become friends in their own right – Lorie and Sue and Doris and Betsy – they were all there with me as I climbed the stairs up past City Hall.

Andy reached out a hand from memory then, and the many moments we have shared in Boston – from the day we secured our wedding license at City Hall (strangely moving) to our wedding day at the Public Garden, and all the anniversaries and visits before and since. Every step of every stroll I’ve ever taken or will ever take in Boston comes with an accompanying loved one, often several, and even when I’m alone they are still with me.

Been walking my mind to an easy time
My back turned towards the sun
Lord knows, when the cold wind blows
It’ll turn your head around
Well, there’s hours of time on the telephone line
To talk about things to come
Sweet dreams and flying machines in pieces on the ground

Back on the T, I remember the first time my brother and I rode the green line from Copley to Government Center when Mom thought we were just walking around Copley Place Mall. Our fledgling motions toward independence – it was a thrill as much for its illicit nature as for its empowering glimpse at what it would be like to be on your own in Boston. And then I thought of Mom’s first visits to the city with us in tow – she introduced me to the magic of the city, and its access to all that was beautiful in museums and stores and history – and then I thought of Dad, who literally gave us our home on Braddock Park many years later, and so many years ago. They were with me now too, the way they would always be.

As I rose from the T stop near Copley, the snow was falling more heavily. The afternoon was beginning its turn. Passing the area where I met the first man I kissed, I thought of our brief time together – not the damaging, darker part of it, but that sunny September day when two young men walked along the Charles River together, unsure of anything and everything other than a shared spark of attraction, an empty and beautiful afternoon, and the possibility of a promise of an entire world and lifetime in the air. Walking deeper into the South End, I remembered my friend Alissa’s first apartment, and a photo shoot we did there, and all the ensuing years of friendship that found us reconnecting in Boston at every major interval in our lives. She was with me too, and so was Chris, who introduced her to us just as they started dating. Chris and Suzie and Anu and Kristen and Tommy and Janet – and all the love we shared through these past decades – the holiday children hours, the weddings and births and deaths – I felt them and our shared history there, strolling beside me, linking spiritual arms and charging through life, always together.

I was hurrying a bit now as the sun was coming down, and I thought back to one of my earliest Boston memories of my Uncle Roberto, tying a scarf around his head as we ran back to the condo after watching a James Bond movie on a frigid January night – parts of his original painting job remain – the gold accents and green stripes – and I knew he was with me as well, even though he’s been gone for over twenty years. All of my loved ones – whether near, far, or sadly departed – walked with me as my snowy stroll neared home.

Maybe there is no such thing as a solitary stroll. Maybe all of our ghosts walk with us once we’ve experienced and amassed a certain amount of living. Maybe this wasn’t My Holiday Stroll for the year – maybe this was Our Holiday Stroll.

Oh, I’ve seen fire and I’ve seen rain
I’ve seen sunny days that I thought would never end
I’ve seen lonely times when I could not find a friend
But I always thought that I’d see you, baby
One more time again, now
Thought I’d see you one more time again
There’s just a few things coming my way this time around, now
Thought I’d see you, thought I’d see you, fire and rain, now

Trudging up the final steps and unlocking the door, I stepped into the room and remembered that I was no longer alone. A backpack and sweatshirt were thrown on the couch – my brother and nephew had arrived in town for a concert that night – and they were about to turn the solitary stroll I’d just reconciled in my mind on its head…