It's Christmas morning. It's not quite 5 a.m. In fact, according to the trustworthy clock on Egon's nightstand, it's 4:58, to be precise.

I'm not up early. Hell no. To be "up" implies having slept, and I'm not sure I got much of that last night. Maybe I drifted a little, but not enough to even reach REM sleep. It's not that we didn't turn in at a reasonable hour - I'm pretty sure that Ray doesn't really believe that Santa won't come until the kiddies are all in bed - but still, we all could see he was getting a little antsy when the 11 o'clock news came on and everyone was still laughing and singing Christmas carols and drinking eggnog. So, to keep him happy, we turned in right after the sports wrapup, putting on our best warm winter jammies and tucking ourselves into bed.

I sit up and blink against the darkness, sweeping my eyes around the bunkroom. All is calm, all is… well, it's too early to be bright. Egon is arranged with tidy precision in the bed beside mine, looking like an illustration from "The Night Before Christmas" - "and I in my cap". How he can stand to sleep in that garb, I don't know. A walking anachronism. Give me my sweats any day.

Winston is snoring rhythmically, so low it's almost subliminal, or maybe I'm just used to it by now. He's one with the Sandman, that's for sure. Eggnog with a little extra shot of rum will do that to you.

Ray. He almost makes me laugh out loud. He's still got that red felt Santa hat perched on his head, the one he came home from a last-minute shopping excursion wearing. No matter how much fun I make of him, no matter how many times I try to snatch it off him and start up a game of keep-away with it, he holds on to it with that stubborn good grace of his. "It's Christmas!" he laughs, as if that explains everything. Maybe it does. Even in sleep, his cheeks are flushed with excitement, like he just can't wait to see what St. Nick has left him downstairs.

I stand, stretch, and tiptoe on stocking feet to where I've laid out a change of clothes. It won't do to make noise, wake up the guys - they'll want to know what I'm up to, where I'm going, Peter, is anything WRONG? - and all that. I know they care… but sometimes, you've just got to take care of some things by yourself.

I don't bother to shower, shave, even change my underwear - plenty of time for that later in the day. And where I'm headed, no one's going to care what I look like anyway. I strip - the night air is cold against my skin and I make a mental note to adjust the thermostat before the next beddy-bye time - then slide into jeans and a tee-shirt, layering with a heavy sweater. It's gonna be cold out this early. I find sneakers by the bed - God, I hope they're a pair, and not one random Reebok and Nike each, let alone a left and a right - and pick them up before I silently hustle down the stairs, to put them on where clunking around in heavy tennies won't wake the guys. I'm not exactly known for being light on my feet sometimes.

Coat, cap, gloves, all are in the rec room where I left them on Christmas Eve. Thank God no one bothered to pick up after me. I pull them on, buttoning up snugly against the morning chill. I pat my pockets; the car keys are where I left them too. Something else is in there too, and I frown as I draw out the crumpled wad of well-worn black knit fabric. Oh, yeah - my scarf.

The tight smile hurts as I run the raggedy length through my fingers. It's definitely seen better days; there are pulls and snags and a long looping runner that stretches for about twelve inches before some hasty stitches with navy-blue thread have it both tacked into place and arrested from further mayhem. It's not a pretty sight, but I wouldn't give it up for the world.

Mom made it for me, more than a decade ago, right before I went off to Columbia. Whatever possessed her to think she could knit, I don't know. Mom wasn't exactly the crafty type; or hell, maybe she was but just never got the chance to indulge it, because those hands were full enough with raising me. Still, somehow, she found enough time and skill to knit one, purl two about three and a half feet's worth of black mohair to keep her green-eyed monster of a son warm in winter.

By the light of our Christmas tree - the guys picked out a great tree, I have to admit, damn near scraping the ceiling, loaded with lights, and dripping with tinsel (not to mention slime, damn the spud's decorating help) - I wrap this artifact around my neck, tucking the frayed fringed ends into the vee of my sweater. Yeah, that feels good, that feels right - all scratchy, dependable, homespun, heartwarming wool against my skin.

I run downstairs, out the garage, to where I've parked the car I've borrowed from a friend who went out of town for the holiday. I figure that offering to drive him to and from LaGuardia during the holiday rush makes us pretty even. Snow is banked in heavy drifts along the curb, some of it spilled in minor avalanches onto the unshoveled sidewalks. Winter in New York - gotta love it. My breath frosts in the frigid air as I fumble the key into the door lock, open up and slide inside. I'm lucky the car starts, since I forgot to turn on the engine block heater. It's cold, dammit - my teeth are practically chattering. I rub my gloved hands together, blow on them - like that'll help, right, Venkman? - and pull away from the curb.

It's an hour's drive to where I'm going, deep in the heart of scenic Jersey. Traffic on the roads is so light as to be non-existent. Who'd be out at 5:30 on Christmas morning anyway? I mean, Santa's already back in bed at the North Pole, right?

The sky is just lightening from black to overcast gray as I pull up outside the gates of the memorial park. I look at my watch - another 25 minutes or so until they open them up. Too late, I wish I'd stopped for coffee at an all-night fast food joint or something to warm me up. Or if I'd brought some of Egon's cocoa. Yeah, I'd almost kill for a nice big mug of that right now. But if I'd asked him to make some more last night and put it in a Thermos for me, that would've kinda tipped him off.

I keep the car running with the heater on. Wouldn't do to freeze to death, although at least I'd be in the right place for it. I tap my fingers on the steering wheel, beating out a random rhythm while I wait. I keep my eyes straight ahead, trying not to look at the snow-covered mounds within the gates.

I haven't been here since…. Since last summer. Since she went to her just reward. Since she left this mortal coil. Since she crossed the bridge.

Since she died.

It sucks to lose your mom before you're even thirty.

The caretaker is early. He give me a hard stare as he pulls his little golf-cart into the driveway, jumps out, and unlocks the gate with a key that looks like it belongs to the Tower of London. I'm not interested in playing eye-contact games with him, so I keep my gaze averted until after he's pulled away, probably to go unlock the other gates. I shift the car into drive, and swing into the memorial park. I cruise for a while, looking and remembering, make a left, make a right, then pull over at the Courtyard of Eternal Light.

No one else is around. Can't tell you how glad I am to be here alone. Well, not alone. There are… spirits here, not the kind you detect with a PKE meter (although Egon might dispute that), but I feel a huge sense of greatness and sadness, of thousands of one-way passages to the incomprehensible Other Side, shimmering almost palpably in the air.

I turn off the engine and a muffled, complete silence falls over me. Not even a breeze stirs the bare branches of the trees that reach toward the gray sky. I reach over, take the tape player from the glove box where I left it ready the night before, and slip it into a pocket, then get out of the car.

Too late, as my sneakers sink through the crusted snow, I remember that it would have been better to wear boots. My feet are instantly cold and wet. I can almost hear my mom chewing me out, about dressing better for the weather, warning me against catching my death of cold, shaking her head as she tightens this scarf around my neck and then tries to kiss my forehead in fond dismissal as she turns me loose against the elements. You don't even know how much it hurts when I think of all the times I dodged that quick peck. I'm a college student, I'm in a frat, Jeez, Mom, I know how to take care of myself.

I shoot for the tree I memorized as a landmark. Good thing too, as the memorial park looks so different today, covered with snow. Even well-maintained, it's hard to tell one plot from the other under the heavy white blanket left over from the storm we had a couple of days ago.

I stop where it feels about right, crouch down, and brush my hand over a hollow in the snow, feeling for the plaque. I can't help thinking that this would be a hell of a lot easier if it were an old-fashioned cemetery, with headstones you could see, instead of those little markers on the ground. "Grounds maintenance reasons," they told me, when I asked why not. My fingertips finally catch a metal edge and I stroke away the layer of snow covering it.

Yeah. I've found it.

I clear everything away from the surface of the simple copper plaque, noticing how the elements are already recasting it with a faint blue-green sheen, then let my fingers trace its embossed letters one by one. I kept it simple; just her name, the dates, and… "Beloved Mother". I figured it was the least I could do for her.

I take the tape player out of my pocket, balance it on the marker, and hit "Play", then straighten up. A few seconds later, "Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas" starts spooling into the silence around us, just me, and Mom, and her favorite song. It's even the right version, the one by Judy Garland, from "Meet Me In St. Louis". I can't even watch that scene in that movie; little Margaret O'Brien with those big brown eyes full of tears, while Judy sings her heart out.

I close my eyes, wrap my arms around myself, and listen.

"Have yourself a merry little Christmas.
Let your heart be light…."

Not gonna happen. Not today.

"Here we are as in olden days,
Happy golden days of yore.
Faithful friends who are dear to us
Will be near to us once more."

Thank God for the guys, I automatically think, knowing I couldn't have gotten through last summer without them. I wonder if they'll be pissed when they wake up and see I'm not there this morning to share it with them.

"Someday soon we all will be together
If the Fates allow.
Until then we'll have to muddle through somehow."

It's even the right lyrics. I hate it when some incurable holiday optimist replaces them with "Hang a shining star upon the highest bough". There were more than just a few lonely years there where she and I would have been lucky to have that bough, let alone the shining star that's supposed to go on it.

"So have yourself a merry little Christmas now."

The music trails away, leaving only the hiss of empty tape as the player continues to roll. I feel frozen, and not by the cold, standing there, and suddenly, completely alone. Something tight inside me threatens to let go. I feel my eyes start to sting, and quickly shove it back down, pack it away, zip it tight. I'm not gonna lose it. I'm not gonna lose it. I'm NOT gonna lose it.

I bend to pick up the tape player. There is a small trickle of melted snow running beside it across the marker, like a silent tear. Absently, I wipe it away, my fingers caressing her name again. I can't believe that this is all that's left of her. Random thoughts start coming fast, darting erratically like swifts on the wing, and I can't stop them. All those years of regrets, of sad and sorry Christmases, waiting for confirmation that yet another promise has been broken.

"Next year all our troubles will be miles away". Right.

I hope she's at peace.

I hope she's warm.

I hope… I hope she's proud of me.

I lose it.

It's a while before I can straighten up from her grave. There's an emptiness to me that somehow seems even sharper than it did before I came. Major miscalculation - coming here was supposed to make me feel better, not worse. Tears are frozen on my cheeks like rime as I wipe them away on my coat sleeve. I take a deep breath and, done, am turning to go when the silence is shattered by the slamming of another car door. I didn't even hear it pull up. I raise my eyes and there he is, standing at the curb, looking in my direction.

My dad. Charlie Venkman, standing there big as life under the leaden, overcast sky,

He looks as startled as I am. Fancy meeting you here, Pop, I think. "Son, I'm - " he begins. I drop my eyes and wave a dismissal, starting to crunch my way back through the snow. My toes are numb in the wet socks and sneakers, and I feel like I've sprouted a few icicles between them.

He sidles up to me, looking like he's going to say something again. I beat him to the punch. "Lucky you could find the place, Dad. First time here, isn't it?" He didn't make it to the funeral; not that it surprised me, but it still hurt.

"I… knew where it - where she was." His eyes hold this weird, atypical mixture of dismay and guilt. It's only 7:30 or so, and I suddenly realize he's come this early to avoid something exactly like this. I snicker inside. Surprise, Dad! Your boy Peter can get up before noon sometimes.

Another irony gut-punches me, and I almost lose my breath. I hear a line from her song - "someday soon we all will be together". Well, hell, here we are at last, me, and Mom, and Dad, together at Christmas. Wouldn't it have been a whole lot nicer if it might have happened one of those years when she was still alive, for Christ's sake?

"Peter…" There's something about his tone that makes me stop, and I actually face him. I hate the fact that he can probably tell I've been crying. He hasn't earned the right to see these tears, especially these tears for her. "At least I'm here now," he says softly.

There's a red rose in his hands - in his bare hands - its ruby head drooping slightly at the end of the long green stem. The outer petals are bruised and wrinkled, like the flower's seen better days. Dad's looking like he's seen better days too - despite how bitterly cold this morning is, he's only wearing a light autumn coat, over thin slacks and a golf shirt.

I look past him, at his car. It's in worse shape than usual, with a few more dents and dings, and a heavy coat of road grime on the dull finish. The tread on the right rear tire is almost gone. There's such a collection of junk in the back seat - suitcases, boxes, a tangle of wire hangers, even a 13-inch TV with a broken antenna and a couple of mostly-dead houseplants - that I suddenly realize that he is currently "between permanent residences", as he prefers to say it. It beats admitting "homeless".

Whatever that last con of his was, it must not have gone very well.

I think of everything I want to say, everything I have the right to say, to let out all the anger and rancor of years of ruined holidays and false promises. But I just can't get into it now. Instead, I ask, "Where's your winter stuff?" I gesture at his bare head, hands, the scuffed Oxfords that are letting in the drifts of snow.

He shrugs. "In storage." I know he must not mean in a leased locker where he's fallen behind on the payments and has been locked out, because he would have come right out and asked to borrow the $135 back-rent from me to get access, like he did the last time. He must mean in storage in Reno, or Miami, or hell, maybe even Cuzco - no place local - wherever he was the last time he had to pick up and go, in a hurry, and take only what fit in the trunk and back seat of that old beater car.

"Dad…" I start, and he shakes his head, then shivers, even though I can tell he's trying to suppress it. "Here. Take these." I pull off my gloves - even if I don't have a couple more pairs at home, I figure can always steal Ray's - and hand them over to him. "And this…" I pull off my cap and set it gently on his head. "And…."

I unwind the scarf from around my neck, feeling the tickling itch of raggedy mohair fringe as it slithers out from where I've tucked it inside my sweater. I reach out and wrap it around his neck, managing to smile as I pat it into place. "That should keep you."

His eyes are warm. "Thanks, son." He steps forward, and our arms go around each other.

I step away first, clearing my throat. We're both avoiding each other's eyes. "Stop by the firehouse later, if you want to, Dad. Winston's cooking - we've got ribs and turkey, and Ray's Aunt Lois brought us some homemade pies…."

He nods. "If I'm in the area, I will, Peter."

"Okay." There's nothing else to say. "See ya." I step toward my car, open the door, and slide in. That's that.

I watch for a moment through frosty windows as he trudges to Mom's grave, the red rose bobbing in his hands, then I fire up the engine and pull away. I know that if I'm not back by nine, the guys'll send out a search party or something, so I'd better hustle. It's going to be nice and warm back home; there'll be blueberry pancakes for breakfast - we'll probably even microwave the syrup - and fresh-squeezed orange juice, big slabs of country ham, and Egon's special cocoa with a dollop of real whipped cream on top for the occasion. I think I'll pick up a box of donuts on the way home, as much so they'll think that's what I went out for as to bait Slimer away from the really good stuff on our plates.

Almost to the gate, I make a U-turn and head back toward the Courtyard of Eternal Light. But I'm too late - his car is already gone, and he must have left through one of the other gates. The red rose is a bright flag across the mounded snow on her grave, a silent, solitary beacon against the whiteness. I stare at it for a moment, at the doubled tracks of footprints leading to it, then wheel around once again, thinking of what awaits me at home…

My friends, my family.

A merry little Christmas.