Mary, Christmas

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.”