Christmas Spirits

Our lives tick by, notched by memories.  Christmas, especially, often fires an onslaught of images and emotions, tightly tethered to nostalgic holiday recollections.  It is a season that marks, year to year, all the important things that have happened.  It is both an anchor and a tool for reflection, as well as a blazing ray of hope in a murky crystal ball.

A few days ago I was given such a memory, tearful yet happy.  The sun was shining warmly; it was unseasonable for a December day.  I thought of the cemetery, all decked out in Christmas cheer for the dead.  J. and I missed putting a grave blanket down for our dads last year, due to time or weather or some such excuse.  The upcoming weekend would be full, so I decided to be a big girl and visit the cemetery where my father is buried all by myself. But, on the way over, I stopped by to visit my mother and after only a couple of minutes deliberation, I decided to ask her if she would like to go with me.  Tears welled up in her eyes and she murmured a soft “yes” and punctuated it with an emphatic head nod.  So my one hour errand turned into almost three hours.  No matter. Unsure of what Mom’s capacity will be in a year, it seemed like a right moment to catch, to encase in the silvery snow globe that holds all my Christmases.

So, we stopped at the little roadside setup that sells Christmas trees and grave decorations, located along the Black Horse Pike, right before the cemetery.  Mom waited in the car while I looked everything over and decided on a pretty pine blanket, a nice amount of dark green boughs, heavy on the red ribbons and accented with white fronds.  We also bought a winter floral cross to put on my grandparents grave; they sleep in the same cemetery, Grandma nagging Grandpa for all eternity.

We parked along the car path, off to the side.  Over the bumpy terrain on foot we went, past the five familiar Italian names (dad should feel right at home in “Italy Row # 500” of St. Joseph’s).  We carefully navigated to the sixth headstone in, towards the BHP.  Mom used the walker as I steadied her from behind.  We said a prayer to Dad and we sniffed and Mom wiped her nose and dabbed her eyes and commented on seeing her own name and birthdate etched into the granite.  “I don’t want that done for me,” I chuckled through my own sniffles and tears.  "There is no way I want to ever see my name on any kind of grave marker until I’m dead."  But, that was her wish, to make things easier for us, she said.  That’s Mom, famous in the family for thinking ahead.  Just like the time I found her “final” clothes labeled “to be buried in” in her closet.  Ever the fashionista, she even picked the shoes; a note was tucked into the heel of the right shoe.  “I want to be buried in these shoes.  It will be the only time they won’t hurt my feet.”  Dance it up when you get there, Mom.  There is no such thing as uncomfortable shoes in the afterlife.

Every outing usually includes lunch.  I had to think of a place that had easy access to the front door and not much walking from the parking lot.  We went to Denny’s and you would have thought I took her to the Ritz.  For lunch, she wanted fried red velvet cake fritters with cream cheese dipping sauce (pictured on the placemat).  This, from a woman who always made sure that I never skipped my vegetables.  Sure, Mom, why not?  Life is short even if you are ninety years old.  Gimme a couple of those damn fritters, too.

Memories are sometimes all we have.