Christmas is the time of year I miss my Aunt Mariah. She was tall, with flame-red shoulder length hair, and white skin that smelled of something mysterious when she air-kissed me. Aunt Mariah was small on the top and big on the bottom. She was given to wearing bright green dresses whose tops she festooned with gold pins and brooches. Long strands of beads hung round her neck and pressed into my face as she hugged me hello. Her skirts were wide. Her porcelain face bobbed angelically at the top of this construction. To me she resembled a walking Christmas tree. After a few drinks, she could light up any room.

After a few drinks, Aunt Mariah's lips loosened. She regaled the large group of gathered relatives with tales of her travels. She painted such beautiful pictures with her words, that no photos were needed to understand what a moonlit night in Cairo, or a gondola ride in Venice, could stir in your soul. She gave me my love of travel. I have visited every spot she talked about, happily seeking out her favorite destinations, never failing to be impressed at her acumen.

At Christmastime, Aunt Mariah spoke of more than trips to distant lands. In a voice that hinted of far away places, she recounted how her only son was the result of a nighttime in-the-flesh visit by Saint Joseph. This announcement never sat well with her husband, Uncle Eddie, who, over the years, became painfully resigned to her telling of this tale. Aunt Mariah had always insisted on this paternity and thus named her only child, Joseph. No one could convince her otherwise. We never knew what drove her to this conclusion. The family accepted this belief as a part of her, like her hair color and freckles, like her crimson fingernails and lips. Her son, my cousin, Joseph, did not appear at family gatherings, spending them away at a boarding school that Uncle Eddie wisely insisted he attend.

It must not have been easy being the son of a saint, or the husband of Aunt Mariah. But to me she was an exotic species, far different from my lipstick-less mother and no-nonsense grandmother who, at various times, told me matter-of-factly that my aunt was loony. That was that, discussion closed.

For reasons not understood by me back then, Aunt Mariah left the Catholic Church over her impregnation by Saint Joseph and became a Jehovah's Witness. Years later, I found out that her departure was precipitated by the church's refusal to recognize her son as a child of Joseph, something she seemed to believe the Jehovah's Witnesses did readily. Each year, as Aunt Mariah broached the subject of her affair with Saint Joseph, my mother stood, began gathering dishes, and suggested that the children go inside and watch TV. Though I did not want to leave, I was banished from the table along with the rest of my cousins. The room grew quiet as the youngsters left, with only Aunt Mariah's voice punctuating the silence. The adults were amused; some were embarrassed. Uncle Eddie, who deserved to be canonized for his patience, went out to smoke a cigar. Aunt Mariah was oblivious to the silence that descended. She continued talking, hugging my cousins warmly as they departed.

I thought she was fascinating. I dawdled, trying to hear as much as I could of her story. According to Aunt Mariah, she awoke in the middle of the night not knowing why. Aunt Mariah glanced up through her window to a full moon that took her breath away. As she gazed at the brilliant light, she was overcome with desire. Aunt Mariah lay still in her bed, her heart racing. She closed her eyes and could feel the eerie light of the moon on her face. Dizzy with passion, she opened her lips and swallowed. The liquid light made its way to her stomach, then floated through her veins like a molten silver flame. Her eyes opened and there stood Saint Joseph.

the future held promise as bright as Aunt Mariah's lipstick. Anything could happen; everything would be all right. The tree was larger, the ornaments brighter than they are now. No matter how odd or outrageous, you were accepted in the warm bosom of the family.

Now, Aunt Mariah, Uncle Eddie and many other relatives are with us only in spirit, when we assemble. The family is far-flung and harder to gather. Lately, my children tell me I resemble Aunt Mariah. As we scan old photos, I can see how my red hair has bloomed into her shade. My skin has grown paler, my freckles more noticeable. In all these years, Saint Joseph has never visited me. I have yet to swallow a moonbeam.

Nevertheless, perhaps I'll buy a green dress this year.