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My throat threatens to close as images of bills and past due notices flash before my eyes. Hell, I even eat in the dark with candles to save electricity. Resting my head on the steering wheel, I allow a few tears to drip from my eyes and slide down my nose, blurring my vision.
If I can just hold out for a little longer. The most it should take to determine cause of death should be ninety days, but it feels like it’s taking an eternity. But I guess that’s my fault for allowing her to die at home in peace instead of in a hospital.
My phone rings, but I ignore it. No doubt it’s another creditor looking for money I don’t have right now. It might be friends checking in on me, but I don’t want to deal with that just yet, either.
Again, I turn the key and resist the urge to stomp my foot against the gas pedal when it refuses to crank. “Please,” I manage to croak out into the chill. “It’s Christmas. Just… Please.”
Up until this point, I’ve managed to hold myself together. I’d hate to lose it over this hunk of junk that should have been decommissioned years ago. Turning my face, I rest my cheek against the worn leather and breathe in the familiar scent.
Though very faded, I can just barely catch a whiff of her perfume. Granted, it’s overshadowed by the stench of oil and age, but it’s there underneath. Soon, just like the food waiting for me in the freezer, it will be gone. All I’ll have left are these memories and traditions.
Pulling myself back up, I tip my head up to the roof of the car, once more whispering my plea. Whether or not some benevolent being is smiling down at me, or there really is Christmas magic, the car cranks with barely any protest. Relief floods my system as a smile eases across my face.
Perhaps this bodes well for the holiday? Shoving out all thoughts of being alone, I stare out the window as I drive home. All the houses twinkle and sparkle, their decorations outdoing the next neighbor.
When Mom was still healthy, we gave them a run for their money. Every year we plotted out our plan of attack, just as well as any general strategizing for battle. Though there was never an official wi
Cars would stop on the side of the road just to see our wild displays. And on the odd occasion we were late putting things up, people asked. They checked in to make sure we were okay.
It still warms my heart with how many people still flock to my door with goodies and meals, just checking in on me to make sure I’m okay. I’m not, but I can at least put on a good face. It’s what Mom would have wanted.
Pausing at the driveway, I stare up at the bare bones of the house. Not one decoration in sight. Next to me, on either side, my neighbors host all sorts of decorations—Santa, reindeer, snowmen, and even a massive Nativity scene encroaches on my yard, just barely staying on their side of the property line.
They offered to decorate for me, to do something to make it look festive. But I couldn’t do it. It was Mom’s and my thing. No one else could do it like her. No one else could make it magical.
Maybe next year, after the wounds heal a little, I can decorate again. But for now, I just don’t have the heart. That is, if I even decide to stay. I’m still debating selling the house, ridding myself of the pain.
For now, however, I’ll just dream of what it could have been if she was still with me. This year, I’ll make myself content with bringing some holiday magic on the inside. Just enough to warm the place up.
Pulling into the garage, I watch as the snow swirls even harder. I grip my jacket tighter, that old sense of mirth rising back to the surface. Our favorite Christmas memories were when it was snowing.
Giddy for the first time in a while, I argue with the trunk, no longer caring that it sticks. I’m home now, so it can break down for all I care. Making several trips, I bring all my goodies into the living room before heading back to the large freezer to find my meal.
Since the funeral, people from all over have given me casseroles and desserts, enough to keep me fed without having to spend that much extra money. I’m beyond grateful, but none of what they made appeals to me right now.
Sliding my gaze over to a small section off to the side, I run my fingers over the foil covering Mom’s last dish. The very last bit of food she had made before she was too weak to move. Granted, after six months, it will probably not taste nearly as good, but right now, all I want is one last taste of her lasagna.
I make quick work of the oven, getting everything set up so it can heat while I decorate. There’s no shortage of holiday movies I can put on in the background, but it’s not as if I’m really watching, anyway. I’m far too consumed with placing the delicate baubles on the tree.
As I sift through the memories, I second-guess myself for a moment. Maybe it’s all too soon? More tears gather as I pluck out a special ornament, the one Mom and I made together when I was five.
Turning the ceramic piece over in my hands, I run my thumb over the faded signatures and date. Her handwriting was always so dainty, whereas mine looks every bit like a kid wrote it. Not that it got much better as I grew up.
I wipe at my eyes, detesting how the tears blur my vision. Eventually, however, I give up and hang it on the tree. Again, I force myself to look past the memories and give Mom a tree she deserves.
Tugging at the new lights and tinsel, I put the finishing touches on and plug it in. The money probably should have gone to something else, something more substantial, but I couldn’t help the need to make this Christmas just as good as if Mom were still here.
The soft glow illuminates the living room, giving it a cheery feel. Though not perfect, Mom would have loved it. And honestly, that’s all that matters right now.
As my eyes drift to all the different details, I draw in a shaky breath and rest my hand against the top of my shoulder, imagining it’s hers. “O Christmas Tree, O Christmas Tree,” I sing out, my voice warbled and thick with unshed tears. “How lovely are thy branches.”
Choking on the last line, I shake my head and refuse to continue. It just hurts too fucking badly. It doesn’t matter that I can almost hear her voice singing along with mine, the slightly flat sound discordant with my own. I just can’t. It’s far too soon.
I dip down and grab a wad of tinsel and wrap bits of it around me, making a makeshift necklace and corresponding dress. It’s silly, but that’s what I need to break myself from this spell. Walking over to the window, I study my reflection as I twist and turn, acting as if I’m at some fancy event in a sparkling gown.
Thankfully, the ding from the oven signals time for me to grab di
Bringing my di
The fork slides through the mountain of noodles, cheese, and sauce, and for a moment, I worry if I can actually bring myself to taste it. Not only is this the last thing my mother made, it’s also been in the freezer the longest. Part of me wants to eat it, but inside I’m scared.
Will it not be as good as I remember? Will it be just exactly as I remember? Which is worse? Honestly, I can’t tell, and that’s what makes my gut churn as I watch the steam waft off into the air.
I blow on it, stalling as I take my time bringing it up to my lips. Just one taste and the tears roll down my cheeks. It’s as if she just served it up. Like she’s still in the kitchen getting her own plate.