A Merry Little Christmas with Mom

Once I wanted to write a graphic novel with the title "Damn Damn Christmas Ham". The story was going to be a retelling of the first year after my father passed away.

The title came from that first Christmas. It was Mom, my brother Mike, and me all staring at a huge ham at the kitchen table. I recall looking out the window at the total blackness of the early evening--it was gloomy and the lights in the kitchen were not enough to beat back the literal and figurative darkness of the day.

Fast forward 32 years. Here we are again. Mom, my brother Mike, Miss K, and me. There is the ham. Also, left over side dishes from my Mom's birthday festival. And some brussel sprouts that I totally overcooked. This time we were laughing and smiling. Not in a boisterous way. More in a "gee, how nice the holidays are wrapping up and look at this ham!"

I have to say, Miss K has done what no one else has ever been able to do. Make my Mom smile in spite of herself. Now Mom is ready for her and starts smiling in advance. Things are easier in this way.

Mom is not a believer--in Christmas or any of the reasons behind it (with the exception of Miss K, none of us are, really). Yet, I know Mom likes that I wander by on Christmas in the most casual way anyway. We are all introverts in this family. We do the get togethers, but they all cost us something. We all end up exhausted even if we are glad we came. This is why we prefer these low key, extremely low effort gatherings.

I looked out the window. The once dark, empty field now has a Bass Pros plopped on it. The darkness is gone--replaced with the light of the sign. I never thought I'd miss the cheerless dark but now that empty patch won't be filled with golden sky on summer evenings.

There is a sweetness in contrast--even harsh contrasts.

My Mom brought up a memory about camping in Patrick's Point and I started regaling Miss K with memories of going camping with Mom and Dad and staying in a canvas tent in Patrick's point--I don't remember being cold ever in that tent--only the crisp air when my little pajama clad feet stepped onto the moist earth. Mom would be frying bacon over a gas stove. It imprinted itself as a memory of the goodness of life.

I could see Mom smiling with each memory from that time.

Seeing Mom smile, makes me smile.

We both have so much resistance to the holidays. Its nice to break through that and be in the moment instead.