With a loud crash, the bottle fell into 100 little pieces, scattering everywhere off the wall. My head reeled in frustration, anger and contempt. Like the sound of fingernails scraping along a blackboard, the question of why resounded in my head.

I got lost in a memory. I lapsed into thoughts of a small boy, no more than 5 or 6, overwhelmed by the excitement of the holidays. The picture of his mother standing over a turkey, preparing a Thanksgiving feast, played in my head. The aromas of the season filled my brain like they were under my nose right then and there.

Crouching down, I began picking up the shards of glass. My mind kept wandering. I found myself in a place I hadn't been in almost 24 years. Like from the outside looking in, I observed.

The events that led up to that coveted day were just as treasured as the gifts that awaited the boy on that Christmas morning. The cookies and milk were left by the tree for the fat, jolly fellow. There was no real fireplace, but there was a chimney leading into the furnace. Santa would still come, the boy was told.

The boy knew there was no way Santa could come down a fake fireplace. The boy was too smart to think that. But he had no problem picturing Santa going through the furnace. It was close enough to the real thing; anyway, it was the chimney that mattered, the physical opening to the sky through which Santa could scale.

The boy felt safe and protected; he felt loved. His mother tucked him into bed with the usual recitation of prayers. But this was a special night; a night that came but once a year. Tonight, the boy was going to have A Visit From St. Nicholas.

I was snapped back into the present as I cut my finger on a piece of the broken glass. It was a minor cut -- it would heal. I just wondered if Steven and I would be able to do the same in light of his HIV testing.

My violent reaction to his news only helped to give me a sense of something real at a time when everything around me seemed anything but that. But miraculously, that "hero" inside of me is refusing to give up. I began to see that Christmas was long overdue in each of us. The image of the boy reappeared.

Like magic, the boy's mother was no longer simply his mother. Wondrously, her voice became the voice of an angel. And as the angel began to speak, the boy began his anxiously anticipated journey into a land of never-ending happiness and plenty.

"T'was the night before Christmas, and all through the house, not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse." Before long, the boy saw those visions of sugarplums dancing in his head as he slowly drifted off to sleep. It wouldn't be until he became an adult that the boy would hear the words, "a happy Christmas to all, and to all a goodnight," before allowing himself to slumber.

Because none of us can prevent the hands of time from turning, we have no other choice but to accept the events in our lives as they happen and to deal with them. I can't honestly say I'm ready for the holidays this year, especially Christmas, but I can say I have a dire need to accept its message of Love and Hope.

I relish the thought of being consumed with that Love; love for my neighbor, my lover, myself. And there is nothing left other than that Hope when we are at our lowest and most desolate points in our lives. It tells us we will be OK and everything will get better; that we can heal.

The mere order of the season gave me cause enough to reflect. First, we have the occasion to take a break from our hectic lives to formally give thanks for all our blessings -- family, friends, lovers. Next, we celebrate the birth of Hope and Love -- constant and unconditional. And, as if to sum it all up, we are given that symbolic fresh start with a New Year; to say goodbye to all the bad things in our lives, to renew all the good things and to say hello to all the unknowns that wait to be explored.

As I wrapped a Band-Aid around my finger, the vision of the little boy appeared again. This time, it was early Christmas morning while everyone was still asleep. His eyes were filled with wonder and surprise as he stood in awe of Santa's work. I longed to be that boy again, to view life with such freshness and innocence.

It was then that the meaning of the season dawned on me. I don't remember what gifts I received that year or what I even asked for or wanted. I do remember, however, feeling like everything was right with the world, that nothing was impossible, that miracles do happen -- we just have to believe.