The holidays are approaching ...

....like the oncoming enemy. I used to love Christmas; my favorite holiday for most of my life. Thanksgiving, too, and the New Year. These holidays had certainties associated with them: my family. Times to look forward to, traditions to uphold and introduce to the little ones. Food and stockings, the big garbage bag and the particular fashion of disposing of w rapping paper. Kisses and hugs, thank yous, some pizza frite--either sauce or sugar--good strong coffee, and sneaky peeks toward the piles of gifts. The smell of garlic, frying in olive oil; coffee brewing, tomato sauce *with oregano* simmering. Oh, and grated romano cheese.

Both of my parents died just after Christmas, the New Year, three years apart. My mother died January 4th; my father January 13. These cast a pall over my holiday season, because the past was ready to sneak up on me and overtake the present. But what present? I am still trying to find joy in the holidays. I have none. They are the harbingers of the greatest pain I have ever felt.  Last year I ignored Christmas, and I asked my husband to ignore it with me. We escaped to Key West, FL. Had a neutral time. I was sedate but not the mess I thought I'd be.

Halloween is the first of the holidays that gets me. My father loved trick or treating with his grandkids, and I spent his last Halloween with him and them. He was pretty slow, but in it with pictures, smiles, and hugs. Even for his grown up daughters. Strong and long as always. ...the kind that made us feel supported, beloved, and special.  He gave mini versions of these to my tiny niece and nephew, grateful recipients.  My father was known for his hugs. I miss them greatly. The strength of his arms around me, kisses on my cheek. He was never the first to pull away. Ever. Although toward the end, it was we who tried to hang on to him the longest.

So here we are creeping up on Thanksgiving and my birthday.  Last year I tried to focus on what made me feel grateful, but it paled in comparison to what I'd lost. I said to my husband recently, that I didn't want to celebrate the holidays anymore, at least not now. Last year he was willing, this year he is not. The best I could tell him is that I would do my best to get excited for the holidays. Originally we'd decided to fly to Maryland with my aunt and uncle, but my husband's (stupid) job has him back to work on Dec 26th. No way out of it. So I am family-less once again. Only this time  I wanted family. To help reinvent a holiday for which I have only horrifying memories of bringing my dad to the hospital --the final trip.

I don't know if I can come through with the promise to my husband about Christmas. Not yet. It still seems too raw. The look on my dad's face when he decided it was time. His need to take a shower and shave before going in. Putting on his "good jeans" and a red turtleneck sweater. ...I can't go any further without breaking down in painful sobs. No, I am not ready for the holidays. Should I be? Doesn't matter. I am not. No gifts will be good enough, no food that I cook will suffice. No tv specials will get me into the Christmas spirit. Any tree will remind me of my dad going out into our property in the woods, cutting down a tree and bringing it into the house to decorate. Or that last Christmas when he was so weak, that Karl and I took down a fake tree from the attic and set it up, lights and all. He'd tell us to put ornaments in certain places, the ones we'd made earlier in the day. The ones I"d found that were symbols of us: the beach, hiking, birds,   and more ornaments I'd bought at a store's going out of business sale.  (Christmas ornaments that my mother used to hang were not asked to be on this tree). This was a very specific tree with ornaments decorated just for this tree. The last tree.

What to buy my dad for Christmas? It seemed a sick and morbid and sad thing to do. We went to Target and bought him copies of movies he loved that were now on DVD. He didn't give us presents that year. He wrote us each checks and said Merry Christmas on the envelopes. And then he wrote us each notes. I have the envelope with his handwriting on it. I have the cards and notes he wrote.

This is what I think about when the holidays start to roll around. It was the beginning of the end of my life with parents. How does this fade into a rekindled excitement of the time of year when both parents were dying?  I need more time, I guess. More time than a few years. My sister 'fakes' Christmas for the kids. I'm sure they know something's off, but my brother in law isn't the soulful person my sister is, so he's pretty much normal, and the kids love it.  They worry about their mother; I worry about my sister; I worry about my niece and nephew; I worry about myself.  I worry that I won't be able to recreate Christmas for my beautiful husband, whom I love so dearly.  I just don't know.

Like every person in mourning, I try to think what my father would want us to do in his absence: have fun, enjoy, love each other, spend time together. Did he really think we'd be able to do that with broken hearts?

I will try this year. I will dutifully send out Christmas cards, names only. No letters. I will buy gifts for my godchildren and surely have a moment or two of joy. Fleeting it may be, but I hope to god I recognize it for a tiny respite from the deep, deep sadness that the world is not the place in which I grew up; the world in which I grew up was as a child with my parents.  I hope someday, someday that I will figure out this new world and find moments to celebrate.