Between the Dark and Light
I call it “the day”. It occurs without warning every year, sometime between Thanksgiving and Christmas. Sadness gut-punches me. It’s usually brought on by a sound, a smell, or a memory of my father who died thirty-eight years ago at the beginning of the holidays. The sorrow starts in my chest and rises into my throat. Soon I’m brushing away tears.
It could be hearing “O Tannenbaum” on the radio, which his church choir sang at his funeral. Or I’ll see an evergreen wreath on someone’s door and remember the piney smell of my childhood home in December. It’s always a holiday thing that triggers me. My father was the son of German immigrants who settled in Madison, Connecticut.…
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