Like a stealth cat, Christmas has been sneaking up on me. It’s being cautious this year, mindful that my balance is still precarious. ‘Tis the season to make merry but too much merry can push a girl to tears. Christmas notoriously brings more grief than joy to a lot of people – loss is magnified by the same spirit that brings us together, the empty chair is always in the shadows.
This is our second Christmas without him – it sounds strange to wish for more, but I do – I hope to live for a long time and with that time will come many Christmases without him. I better get used to this. I will have to become accustomed facing the season alone and showing up for both of us. I’m the grandparent now, not just the gramma. I represent my generation to the new one growing up – I’m responsible for the stories, for remembering. I am the keeper of Christmas Past – the Santa Claus of the days of yore lives inside of me.
The Santa of my children’s youth has long since retired. He was phased out slowly – I think he knew he was being put to pasture the year he delivered electronics to the kids. Gone were the days of making wishes come true – electronics chosen by someone else are destined to make their way back to the store. The stockings that used to hang on our chimney with care moved to other chimneys to be filled by imposters until a new generation of believers showed up. And show up they did.
Christmas Day is nine sleeps away – my grandchildren are counting the minutes, and so am I. I’m watching them closely, reliving familiar moments and gathering memories for next year’s Christmas past. It’s an ongoing process this passing of Christmas present to Christmas past and I can make it melancholy or merry, the choice is mine. I can loose myself in memories and miss the magic of the moment or I bring those memories into the room with me and add them to the excitement of now. This year I’m leaning more toward the latter.