Frigid wind whips about my face, nearly blinding me as I struggle with the trunk. Baubles of all sorts hang off of my arms and shoulders, making me festooned just like a run-down Christmas tree. Heaving a sigh, I blow out my breath, my lips curling into a smile at the steam pouring from my mouth.
After a few more tugs, the rusted hunk of metal pops open, allowing me to deposit my goods. The old trunk heaves and groans and I press down, forcing it to latch. After bobbing up and down a few times, it finally gets the message and stays shut… but for how long?
With a low grunt, I turn around and rest my back against the curve of the trunk and breathe out again. Rounding my lips out into an O, I huff out the air, sending puff balls drifting into the air. How many times did I pretend to have a cigarette when I was younger?
Mom would always chide me, saying ladies don’t smoke. It was my little secret, a game I played whenever she wasn’t looking. But she knew. She always knew.
Glancing up at the waning sun, I squint against the soft flakes as they assault my lashes. For the first time in the last six months, a chuckle bubbles up, rusty at first, but slowly warming into a cheerful sound.
So many memories surround me like a warm hug, almost as if I can feel her arms around me again. Closing my eyes, I picture our snowball fights when I was a kid, milk and cookies for Santa until I was ‘too old for that baby stuff,’ and finally, mugs of hot cocoa as we sat together in companionable silence and watched the snow blanket the earth.
They’re much better than the most recent memories, which continue to plague me every time I go to sleep. Heaving another sigh, I don’t even care to watch as the steam curls up and disappears, the faint tendrils drifting up to the sky. As much as I want to stay outside, to let the chill freeze my skin to match my insides, I have to go home.
Mom’s final wish was for me to never forget the magic of Christmas. It’s not so magical without her, though. And as much as it hurts, I have to face the empty house at some point.
Who knows, maybe I can find a new way to spend the holidays? Not all traditions have to be passed down through family. I can find my own way to celebrate.
Yeah right.
I push myself away from the car and make my way to the driver's seat. At thirty-five with no prospect of a family and not even a hint of a child to pass anything down to—fur-babies excluded—it feels a little late to come up with some new thing. Thankfully, there’s still stuff in the freezer to eat, so I’m not heating up some lonely meal for one. That’s certainly not something I want to make into a tradition.
My heart clenches as I crank the car, praying it actually starts. Pursing my lips, I apply my foot to the gas and pump as I turn the key. The faint whine as it struggles to choke to life fills my ears, while my gut begins to churn.
With all the money going to the funeral and upkeep on the house, a new car is the last thing I can afford right now. At least until the insurance comes in. And even then, I don’t know how far that will stretch after taking care of all the medical expenses looming over me.
My throat threatens to close as images of bills and past due notices flash before my eyes. Hell, I even eat in the dark with candles to save electricity. Resting my head on the steering wheel, I allow a few tears to drip from my eyes and slide down my nose, blurring my vision.
If I can just hold out for a little longer. The most it should take to determine cause of death should be ninety days, but it feels like it’s taking an eternity. But I guess that’s my fault for allowing her to die at home in peace instead of in a hospital.
My phone rings, but I ignore it. No doubt it’s another creditor looking for money I don’t have right now. It might be friends checking in on me, but I don’t want to deal with that just yet, either.
Again, I turn the key and resist the urge to stomp my foot against the gas pedal when it refuses to crank. “Please,” I manage to croak out into the chill. “It’s Christmas. Just… Please.”
Up until this point, I’ve managed to hold myself together. I’d hate to lose it over this hunk of junk that should have been decommissioned years ago. Turning my face, I rest my cheek against the worn leather and breathe in the familiar scent.
Though very faded, I can just barely catch a whiff of her perfume. Granted, it’s overshadowed by the stench of oil and age, but it’s there underneath. Soon, just like the food waiting for me in the freezer, it will be gone. All I’ll have left are these memories and traditions.
Pulling myself back up, I tip my head up to the roof of the car, once more whispering my plea. Whether or not some benevolent being is smiling down at me, or there really is Christmas magic, the car cranks with barely any protest. Relief floods my system as a smile eases across my face.
Perhaps this bodes well for the holiday? Shoving out all thoughts of being alone, I stare out the window as I drive home. All the houses twinkle and sparkle, their decorations outdoing the next neighbor.
When Mom was still healthy, we gave them a run for their money. Every year we plotted out our plan of attack, just as well as any general strategizing for battle. Though there was never an official winner, we always knew it was us.
Cars would stop on the side of the road just to see our wild displays. And on the odd occasion we were late putting things up, people asked. They checked in to make sure we were okay.
It still warms my heart with how many people still flock to my door with goodies and meals, just checking in on me to make sure I’m okay. I’m not, but I can at least put on a good face. It’s what Mom would have wanted.
Pausing at the driveway, I stare up at the bare bones of the house. Not one decoration in sight. Next to me, on either side, my neighbors host all sorts of decorations—Santa, reindeer, snowmen, and even a massive Nativity scene encroaches on my yard, just barely staying on their side of the property line.
They offered to decorate for me, to do something to make it look festive. But I couldn’t do it. It was Mom’s and my thing. No one else could do it like her. No one else could make it magical.
Maybe next year, after the wounds heal a little, I can decorate again. But for now, I just don’t have the heart. That is, if I even decide to stay. I’m still debating selling the house, ridding myself of the pain.
For now, however, I’ll just dream of what it could have been if she was still with me. This year, I’ll make myself content with bringing some holiday magic on the inside. Just enough to warm the place up.
Pulling into the garage, I watch as the snow swirls even harder. I grip my jacket tighter, that old sense of mirth rising back to the surface. Our favorite Christmas memories were when it was snowing.
Giddy for the first time in a while, I argue with the trunk, no longer caring that it sticks. I’m home now, so it can break down for all I care. Making several trips, I bring all my goodies into the living room before heading back to the large freezer to find my meal.
Since the funeral, people from all over have given me casseroles and desserts, enough to keep me fed without having to spend that much extra money. I’m beyond grateful, but none of what they made appeals to me right now.
Sliding my gaze over to a small section off to the side, I run my fingers over the foil covering Mom’s last dish. The very last bit of food she had made before she was too weak to move. Granted, after six months, it will probably not taste nearly as good, but right now, all I want is one last taste of her lasagna.
I make quick work of the oven, getting everything set up so it can heat while I decorate. There’s no shortage of holiday movies I can put on in the background, but it’s not as if I’m really watching, anyway. I’m far too consumed with placing the delicate baubles on the tree.
As I sift through the memories, I second-guess myself for a moment. Maybe it’s all too soon? More tears gather as I pluck out a special ornament, the one Mom and I made together when I was five.
Turning the ceramic piece over in my hands, I run my thumb over the faded signatures and date. Her handwriting was always so dainty, whereas mine looks every bit like a kid wrote it. Not that it got much better as I grew up.
I wipe at my eyes, detesting how the tears blur my vision. Eventually, however, I give up and hang it on the tree. Again, I force myself to look past the memories and give Mom a tree she deserves.
Tugging at the new lights and tinsel, I put the finishing touches on and plug it in. The money probably should have gone to something else, something more substantial, but I couldn’t help the need to make this Christmas just as good as if Mom were still here.
The soft glow illuminates the living room, giving it a cheery feel. Though not perfect, Mom would have loved it. And honestly, that’s all that matters right now.
As my eyes drift to all the different details, I draw in a shaky breath and rest my hand against the top of my shoulder, imagining it’s hers. “O Christmas Tree, O Christmas Tree,” I sing out, my voice warbled and thick with unshed tears. “How lovely are thy branches.”
Choking on the last line, I shake my head and refuse to continue. It just hurts too fucking badly. It doesn’t matter that I can almost hear her voice singing along with mine, the slightly flat sound discordant with my own. I just can’t. It’s far too soon.
I dip down and grab a wad of tinsel and wrap bits of it around me, making a makeshift necklace and corresponding dress. It’s silly, but that’s what I need to break myself from this spell. Walking over to the window, I study my reflection as I twist and turn, acting as if I’m at some fancy event in a sparkling gown.
Thankfully, the ding from the oven signals time for me to grab dinner and stop with this foolish nonsense. As the thick, gooey lasagna cools on my plate, I dig around in the grocery bag and pull out a small bottle of peppermint schnapps. Nothing like peppermint hot cocoa to put me in the holiday mood. Granted… the chocolate probably won’t go as well with the main meal.
Bringing my dinner into the living room, I curl up on the couch with a thick blanket. Since cutting down on the electric bill, I’ve made my peace with warm clothing, thick comforters, and a fire roaring away in the fireplace. All in all, it’s quite cozy.
The fork slides through the mountain of noodles, cheese, and sauce, and for a moment, I worry if I can actually bring myself to taste it. Not only is this the last thing my mother made, it’s also been in the freezer the longest. Part of me wants to eat it, but inside I’m scared.
Will it not be as good as I remember? Will it be just exactly as I remember? Which is worse? Honestly, I can’t tell, and that’s what makes my gut churn as I watch the steam waft off into the air.
I blow on it, stalling as I take my time bringing it up to my lips. Just one taste and the tears roll down my cheeks. It’s as if she just served it up. Like she’s still in the kitchen getting her own plate.
Soon, she’ll be striding in here, grinning from ear to ear as we snuggle on the couch. Dropping the fork back on the plate, I look over at the empty table. No milk and cookies adorn the worn wood. Yet one more thing that’s not the same.
Yes, I could have grabbed a thing of cookie dough, but what’s the point? So fucking much is not the same, and yet, the things that are gut me from the inside out. The lasagna has no fucking right tasting this good.
It should be stale, rotten, allowing me to mourn my mother in peace. But no. It’s just as good as any other dish she made. Stuffing my face, I let the tears fall as my heart cracks in two.
I’ve not let myself break down. Not really, so in some ways, it feels good to allow my heart to pour out until I’m depleted. My fingers tremble as I grab yet another plate, eating until every last bit of the small dish is gone.
That’s it. There’s nothing left. Everything else in the freezer is from friends and strangers.
There’s nothing fucking left.
Drawing in a deep breath, I grab my cocoa, now tepid, and dump it out, making a fresh one to sip on. Again, I pour a decent dollop of alcohol into the mug, needing a bit of liquid courage to shore me up through the night.
After cleaning up the dishes and putting everything away, I go back to the living room, drink in hand. I draw my feet up on the couch and sip my cocoa as I stare out the window. Snow falls even heavier, blanketing everything in a pristine white. The schnapps warms my insides, driving away any chance at a chill as I turn back to the television.
As always, on Christmas Eve, I queue up A Christmas Carol. Despite the pain it causes, I don’t want to break with tradition. It will already be broken enough tomorrow when I wake up to an empty house with no Mom’s Special Pancakes waiting for me. I didn’t even get a chance to make them with her before she died, and there’s no way in hell I’ll attempt it tomorrow.
Perhaps I’ll just sleep the day away, granting myself the gift of solitude. While others spring from their beds and race toward the tree to unwrap their gifts, I’ll probably just start working on packing things up so I can sell the house. But even that thought makes my insides cramp as a fresh wave of tears prick my eyes.
It would be stupid not to sell. This house is in a prime location and will fetch a great price. Besides, since moving back in with Mom, I had to give up my apartment. There was no way I could afford rent when I wasn’t working.
As devastating as it is to contemplate, I need to move on with my life. Ten months I’ve been away from work on a federal medical leave of absence. Ten months I’ve been a caretaker for my mother. Six months I’ve taken care of her when she could no longer care for herself. Two months I’ve dealt with hospice as I watched my strong, vibrant mother wither away into nothing.
Now, for about a month, I’ve been mourning her memory and trying to figure out what’s next. Plans need to be made, and time is running out to make them. Once everything is settled here, I know I can go back to my old job. The lawyers there made it very clear I was an asset they didn’t want to give up.
Even if I don’t want to go back home and live my life again, I can always find work anywhere. I have excellent references and the drive to succeed. At least, I hope I still have that.
I don’t want that part of me to die along with my mother. She’d be heartbroken to see me wasting my life as I look for meaning in her death. Glancing back over to the window, my heart squeezes so hard I lose my breath for a moment.
Part of me still contemplates staying here and using the money from her insurance to fix this house back up, not to sell, but to live. I know I can find work at a local law firm. Unfortunately, I don’t think my heart can handle it.
Everywhere I turn, there are memories. I can’t even buy groceries without people shaking their heads and giving me those sympathetic looks. I can deal with it for the most part, but when they touch my arm and tell me how my mom was such a good woman… it’s just far too much to bear.
I know she was a good woman. She raised me. I couldn’t have asked for a better mom, friend, and confidant. Raising me by herself didn’t seem to affect her at all. We were best buddies until the very end.
Setting the empty snowman mug on the table, I curl in on myself, forcing my brain to shut down as I watch Ebenezer Scrooge berate poor Bob Cratchit. Whenever Mom and I watched this together, she was always fussing at both of them—Scrooge for being such a tight-ass dickwad, and Cratchit for not having a freaking spine.
A smile drifts across my lips as my eyes grow heavy. “Just you wait, Scrooge,” I mutter toward the screen. “You’ll get your comeuppance.”
My eyelids feel heavy as the ghosts warn Scrooge of the events of his night. Unable to keep them open any longer, they close as the first chime of the clock sounds, signaling his doom. With a heavy sigh, I drift off to sleep.
