The stockings are hung by the chimney with care.
But there's a smile, a laugh, a voice missing there.
I may cry the day I take the tree down, but then again; I cry when I stand it up and decorate it too. So how am I to be trusted? Christmas is just one of those times of year, a time when I'm not in full control of the way I lash out or of the tears that fall at the most inconvenient of times. And this season now marks the seventh Christmas I've had to spend without my mom; the woman whose eyes twinkled brighter than any light around the holidays.
And it's funny to look back at the shattered thirteen-year-old girl I was seven Christmases ago. I refused to look at the Christmas tree, locked myself in my room sobbing for hours on end; I couldn't hear a Christmas song without breaking into tears and shrieking at anyone within an audible range. All I wanted to was to lock myself away from my family and anyone who had the audacity to smile or say anything pleasant. I mean, how dare they? I even tried to focus on the selfish nature of what presents I would receive. And I tried to fixate on that and forget everything about what Christmas had always meant to me. But even as I waited for my turn to unwrap a gift, there was nothing exciting or anticipatory about it. All I felt was pain... and emptiness.
I listen to Christmas music now, almost as a religion. I take any chance to wander around looking at Christmas lights. I spent hours decorating the house until it's aglow in twinkling lights and garland. I've been cooking and planning for a straight week to prepare a true Christmas dinner for my 12 family members who are attending this year. And I do it all for her; I do it because if she were here, she would be cooking and decorating and blasting Christmas music all over the house. I do it because taking on her responsibilities brings me closer to her than I ever thought I could be after her death; closer than I'd ever dared to hope.
I sit on the couch, staring up at the tree. It's been a long day of shopping and running from store to store maniacally. The ham and pies wait patiently to be baked; the presents to be wrapped. But I only stare into the ethereal glow from the Christmas lights. A heaviness in my chest almost brings tears to my eyes, but something stops it. It's a numb kind of fuzziness that warms my veins and tingles the ends of my fingers. Almost as if someone unbeknownst to me is wrapping their arms around me; someone I can almost feel.
But there's a smile, a laugh, a voice missing there.
I may cry the day I take the tree down, but then again; I cry when I stand it up and decorate it too. So how am I to be trusted? Christmas is just one of those times of year, a time when I'm not in full control of the way I lash out or of the tears that fall at the most inconvenient of times. And this season now marks the seventh Christmas I've had to spend without my mom; the woman whose eyes twinkled brighter than any light around the holidays.
And it's funny to look back at the shattered thirteen-year-old girl I was seven Christmases ago. I refused to look at the Christmas tree, locked myself in my room sobbing for hours on end; I couldn't hear a Christmas song without breaking into tears and shrieking at anyone within an audible range. All I wanted to was to lock myself away from my family and anyone who had the audacity to smile or say anything pleasant. I mean, how dare they? I even tried to focus on the selfish nature of what presents I would receive. And I tried to fixate on that and forget everything about what Christmas had always meant to me. But even as I waited for my turn to unwrap a gift, there was nothing exciting or anticipatory about it. All I felt was pain... and emptiness.
I listen to Christmas music now, almost as a religion. I take any chance to wander around looking at Christmas lights. I spent hours decorating the house until it's aglow in twinkling lights and garland. I've been cooking and planning for a straight week to prepare a true Christmas dinner for my 12 family members who are attending this year. And I do it all for her; I do it because if she were here, she would be cooking and decorating and blasting Christmas music all over the house. I do it because taking on her responsibilities brings me closer to her than I ever thought I could be after her death; closer than I'd ever dared to hope.
I sit on the couch, staring up at the tree. It's been a long day of shopping and running from store to store maniacally. The ham and pies wait patiently to be baked; the presents to be wrapped. But I only stare into the ethereal glow from the Christmas lights. A heaviness in my chest almost brings tears to my eyes, but something stops it. It's a numb kind of fuzziness that warms my veins and tingles the ends of my fingers. Almost as if someone unbeknownst to me is wrapping their arms around me; someone I can almost feel.
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