Growing
up, Christmas was more than just a holiday, it was an institution. My
momma, Mary, was born on Christmas Eve, and instead of ruing the fact
that her birthday and Christmas presents were oft combined, she totally
embraced the holiday. In our home, Christmas meant the sounds of Little
Saint Nick, Snoopy vs. The Red Baron, and the smoky, crackling voice of
Eartha Kitt singing Santa Baby drifting out of the speakers. It meant a
house that smelled like pie because of momma’s simmer pot, a concoction
of cloves, cinnamon, and other spices that she let sit on the stove for
hours, until it turned a brown the color and consistency of mud, but
making the whole house smell intoxicating. I can still see the garland
and lights wrapped just so around the stair case, and the dozens and
dozens of Santa Clauses that momma had collected placed carefully around
the house. She’s been gone six Christmases and just like her
collectibles and Christmas decorations, I have kept these memories
neatly packed away.
In
the Christmases since her absence I have welcomed the holiday, but now I
see that it was more of an awkward side hug than a full on embrace.
This year is different though. I am ready; I have to be. You see, Troy
has begun to realize that I no longer have a mother, at least
physically. Noticing her in pictures and asking about her, I have
honestly told him that she passed away, that she has died. He cups my
face and cocks his head to the side, “You’re not gonna see her anymore?”
he asks. “No,baby.” He looks at me and in his eyes I see that while he
does not fully understand the weight of this, he recognizes the pain and
sadness in my voice and matches it with tenderness in his own.
This
past Saturday we pulled out Christmas decorations, turned on Christmas
music, and lit a seasonal candle that made our little apartment smell
delicious. We hit a glitch with our Christmas tree but a dear friend
came to the rescue (thank you, Brittany!), and as I pulled out ornaments
I handed them to Troy, whose eyes lit up as each delicate trinket was
entrusted to him to bring to his daddy to hang on the tree. Each
ornament, from a simple popsicle stick reindeer to ceramic Santas and
glittery snowmen, were treasures to be delighted in and his joy was
palpable, as was mine. And so, even though my children will never know
the warmth of my mother’s body as she clutches them in an embrace, will
never smell the Elizabeth Arden Green Tea perfume she always wore, or
will never see her, mouth open and head back bursting with laughter;
they will know her. They will know her in the twinkling lights on the
tree, they will know her in the kitchen, sticky,small hands clutching
mine on top of the mixer as we whip up Christmas treats, and they will
know her by my love for her and hers for me, which has shaped me to my
core.
Thanks for reading, y’all.
“Let your heart be light.”
