I thought about her . . .

I thought about my mom a lot this Christmas, our second without her. The year after she died was a series of days and events, one leading to the next, a run-on sentence of grief, the sale of my parents’ house, getting Dad moved, and wrapping and packing beloved possessions that once belonged to her.

Actually though, the whole thinking more about her began before Thanksgiving. She was with me a lot. I saw a meme of a turkey sitting on a prone Santa captioned, “What’s your hurry, fat man?” I thought of her then, knowing how she would have laughed. She was always annoyed that Christmas hoopla overshadowed turkey day, her favorite holiday.

I thought about her as we were sorting out the Christmas ornaments Dad had dropped off at my house, not wanting anything to do with decorating this second Christmas without Mom or maybe even ever again, even declining my offer to get him a small tree. I thought about her as we unwrapped each ornament, many featuring birds; she loved birds. Never once did a bird fly by, a cardinal, blue jay, or hummingbird when she didn’t exclaim, “Look, there’s a cardinal!” or whatever kind of bird it might have been. My mother loved all creatures. Never having had a pet growing up, she took childlike pleasure in collecting ceramic figures of birds and even other creatures. One of them, a dove, my own favorite bird, now lives on my shelf. I think of her every time I walk by.

I thought about her at Christmastime as I arranged presents beneath the tree. I have friends who don’t buy presents for one another anymore—“We don’t do gifts. We just give money instead”—they’ll say; it all seems so cold. I thought of my mother and the joy she took in finding the perfect gift, buying presents for her children even now that we are all in our sixties, but it’s because of her, I know the joy of giving, not just to my family and friends, but to anyone in need. I thought of her as I did my Christmas shopping, the gifts we would normally buy for her a sad, vacuous hole beneath the tree.

I thought about her when we decorated for Christmas, knowing that my own home could never compare to her carefully chosen and beloved decorations, each room resplendent in a color-coordinated holiday palette and a tree featuring a tremendous spread of a Dickens village with miniature people in miniature houses. Despite her absence, I could sense her spirit nearby, so alive, so joyful.

So I found myself dreading the end of the Christmas season this year.

Usually, by New Year’s Day, I’m ready to pack up Christmas and look forward to Easter and spring that arrives early in southern Florida, but this year, I dreaded it. This year, I hung on to Christmas with everything I had. I continued to watch Hallmark, plug in my tree and all the outside lights every night, and listen to carols long after Christmas day until the last vestige of her, like the magic of Christmas, was gone.

Until next year, Mom. I love you . . .