Christmas Lights
The first Christmas after my dad died I spent sleeping in his chair in the living room with only the Christmas lights shining. There was a void I hadn’t begun to process. I remember my mom apologizing profusely to us that she “didn’t feel like Christmas this year.” Oh mama, how I can relate. That year her and I put up the tree and tried to convince ourselves that we could move forward and make new memories. We bought a few new lights and ornaments and did what we were supposed to do, carry on. Right? That’s what we were supposed to do? That’s what my 16-year-old self thought. Now, I would give myself permission to say fuck it and just do what I wanted.
That’s what I did last year, the first Christmas without my mom. I wanted to fast-forward through the holiday and pretend it wasn’t happening. My spouse and I and our two dogs drove to Colorado and escaped into the mountains for a few days, eating gas station snacks on Christmas Day while we drove toward the Rockies. I know my whole family felt her absence. I know we always will. She was such a presence in our lives.
In recent years, I would be her elf and ask her what she wanted me to get for Christmas presents for everyone. I’d make a list with her and call her from the store when I found something. We usually made an afternoon out of putting up her little tree and then my nieces would decorate and add lights around her apartment.
When I was younger, I remember my mom getting mad at me for snooping around the tree too much to look at presents. When nobody was looking sometimes my brother and I would peel a corner of the wrapping back to peek at what we got. Somehow she thought leaving my dad to “guard” the tree on Christmas Eve was a good way to stop me from waking up at midnight to see what Santa brought me. He always fell asleep on the couch, leaving me the perfect opportunity to sneak out with a flashlight and see what I got.
We made cookies upon cookies, which I know she got from my grandma. My grandma and Christmas were a sight to see. It was baking and cooking and hosting, all of the things she loved. Every kind of cookie you could imagine was spread across the counters or the hutch. When we would all gather at my grandparents’ house on Christmas Eve, it was quite the crowd. By the end of the night, there was no room left on the living room floor between wrapping paper scraps and people. Since my mom has passed, I have felt my grandma’s presence even more. It’s a peaceful presence, a nurturing presence. Even though I know she shakes her head at how the cooking gene skipped me. Sorry grams, I’ll keep trying!
I find myself this year dreading the holiday again. I love Christmas. I love the lights and the trees and the decorations. I love the baking and the music and movies. It’s a juxtaposition. And yet I know we are allowed to feel joy amidst the pain. The pain, though, is strongest on these chilly nights when the sun falls and I’m left with the reminder that my friend is gone. Yes, I miss my mom and her being my mom. Under that though, I miss my friend.
Sometimes lately I find myself being hit with the reality that she is really gone, even after two years. Then again, two years isn’t very long. I find myself wanting to call her, wanting to stop by her place for a visit. I want to put her Harry Connick Jr. holiday album on in her living room and listen to her sing along and call him “Harry baby.” I want to stop by Dairy Queen and get her a chocolate shake just because she’s always in the mood for one. I want to call her when I see “It’s a Wonderful Life” playing on tv just to tell her what channel it’s on. I want to pick her up to go watch one niece sing in choir, or the other one for her senior swim banquet. She is in all of those moments, but yet she’s not. That’s why the words of Cole Swindell’s song always stick with me: “And this moment has got your name written all over it, and you know that if I had just one wish it’d be that you didn’t have to miss this. You should be here.”
I have peace in knowing that what her and I shared was so special. I also have peace in knowing that she is free from her physical body that held her back in so many ways. She is the strongest person I’ve ever known.
I share all of this for anyone else out there who is feeling many things at once. For those who are struggling with big gatherings and holidays where things have changed or people are gone. I hope you can give yourself grace as you put one foot in front of the other. And I hope the twinkling lights bring you warmth as they do for me.
Xo
