Light
I could never figure out why Mom loved Christmas. Dad died on a Christmas Eve. Mom's father left her mother at Christmas, and Dad's dad was found dead in his home on Christmas, surrounded by his cats, if you catch my drift.
After so much loss, I started referring to Christmas as Xmas. Mother didn't much care for that, but for me, Christmases were at best brief moments of red and green shorting out wasteland winters. I vowed that once I was on my own, I'd ignore them. Who knew that Mom would start campaigning every August for me to spend the holiday with her? She made Christmases that were works of art, and I found myself rubbernecking, drawn to them like disaster.
One year, Mom suffered a stroke. The doctor said, "You'll hear from this later." No I won't. We all thought everything would change – but nothing could diminish Mom's delight in Christmas. That year it was contagious. We joined hands and danced around the blinking tree, singing carols with ad-libbed lyrics. I pretended it was not a one-time deal.
Mom began to lose things -- keys, money, sense of direction. Soon there was no driving. No cooking. She couldn't keep track of relatives' relationships to her or to one another. You look familiar was all she would give me. Her appetite began to play hide and seek, then disappeared entirely. Dwindling, she got on the scale and announced, "I lost a hundred pounds!"
This year, although she can no longer wrap them, she wants to deliver gifts to long dead relatives in another country. She wants to celebrate the holiday with her parents, on the farm in where she spent her first eleven years. "Dad chops down the biggest tree he can find," she tells me as we decorate our fake one. "Mum decorates it with ropes of popcorn and cranberries." I keep on winding lights around artificial branches. A moment before she had been crying because she couldn't remember how to do that.
She sits with vacant eyes in the chair facing the tree. I plug in the lights and nothing happens. I ask her why the hell does she love Christmas so much. No answer. I busy myself with testing the bulbs one by one.
She begins to rock in her chair. There's no telling what, or if, she's thinking now. "Dad fastens candles to the branches. When he sets them on fire, they burn and burn." She comes out with all this in a singalong voice, and I want to chime in, but these are not my memories. Perhaps they are not even hers, but the ghost of a fantasized childhood. "The flames were dangerous, but you never saw such beauty! It was enough to take your breath away."
Her face tilts up toward the memory, and I have to turn away. I try the extension cord one more time, and the room comes alive with the light of so many extinguished stars.
After so much loss, I started referring to Christmas as Xmas. Mother didn't much care for that, but for me, Christmases were at best brief moments of red and green shorting out wasteland winters. I vowed that once I was on my own, I'd ignore them. Who knew that Mom would start campaigning every August for me to spend the holiday with her? She made Christmases that were works of art, and I found myself rubbernecking, drawn to them like disaster.
One year, Mom suffered a stroke. The doctor said, "You'll hear from this later." No I won't. We all thought everything would change – but nothing could diminish Mom's delight in Christmas. That year it was contagious. We joined hands and danced around the blinking tree, singing carols with ad-libbed lyrics. I pretended it was not a one-time deal.
Mom began to lose things -- keys, money, sense of direction. Soon there was no driving. No cooking. She couldn't keep track of relatives' relationships to her or to one another. You look familiar was all she would give me. Her appetite began to play hide and seek, then disappeared entirely. Dwindling, she got on the scale and announced, "I lost a hundred pounds!"
This year, although she can no longer wrap them, she wants to deliver gifts to long dead relatives in another country. She wants to celebrate the holiday with her parents, on the farm in where she spent her first eleven years. "Dad chops down the biggest tree he can find," she tells me as we decorate our fake one. "Mum decorates it with ropes of popcorn and cranberries." I keep on winding lights around artificial branches. A moment before she had been crying because she couldn't remember how to do that.
She sits with vacant eyes in the chair facing the tree. I plug in the lights and nothing happens. I ask her why the hell does she love Christmas so much. No answer. I busy myself with testing the bulbs one by one.
She begins to rock in her chair. There's no telling what, or if, she's thinking now. "Dad fastens candles to the branches. When he sets them on fire, they burn and burn." She comes out with all this in a singalong voice, and I want to chime in, but these are not my memories. Perhaps they are not even hers, but the ghost of a fantasized childhood. "The flames were dangerous, but you never saw such beauty! It was enough to take your breath away."
Her face tilts up toward the memory, and I have to turn away. I try the extension cord one more time, and the room comes alive with the light of so many extinguished stars.
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