The creeping nostalgia climbs up my spine as the wind gets colder, reminding me of what once was and what will never be again. My mother’s voice echoes off the walls, and it’s the only comfort I have during the holiday season. Sometimes she holds me like I’m a little kid again and everything disappears for a moment.
My dad died in August 2019, then my mom’s dad passed right before Christmas. Holidays are really hard when your family has a habit of dropping like flies. I watch my mom run around and try to lick everyone’s wounds during Thanksgiving and Christmas, as she lets us know that we still have her despite it all.
I don’t know if my mom has become aware that I notice how attentive she becomes when the trees sleep and the streets get icy. She knows how I seclude myself and melt into my dirty sheets when times get hard, and how I get angrier and harder to hold. She stays patient. My mom’s hands are the softest I have ever felt, even when I won’t let her close.
When I look in the mirror, I see my mom staring back at me. She looks younger, less confident, and more confused than ever. I think my mom sees it too.
When you think about it, we are both just girls who lost their dads. We connect more than I ever realized, but realization settles in when my mom and I bleed the same blood and cry the same tears. She watches me with eager eyes as I open my Christmas presents, and I look back at her. She sees me.
Holiday cookies don’t taste the same, but it helps when I know my mom made them with the purest of intentions. Snow isn’t as fun as it used to be, but I can’t help but smile when I walk out of my house in the morning to a silly snowman my mom made the night before. Even if it’s just for a moment, I feel like I’m a little kid again, and the world has yet to dull my sparkle.
It sometimes feels wrong to celebrate this time of year, that it’s wrong to be happy while my dad and so many others are no longer here. I often cry during Thanksgiving because it’s hard to be thankful for all I have when I can only see the things I’ve lost. I shed tears while opening presents. I let out a sigh while visiting my distant family. They all say I am “so strong,” that that’s how my dad raised me to be. I look at my mom—I hope she knows I got most of my strength from her.
I used to be so angry at the world, especially on holidays. I used to shake my fists at the sky and beg to know why it felt like the world was ending. Why the rain cried for me and the sun shined for everyone else. Through the years, I found that my mom also shakes her fists at the sky. She hopes that if she questions enough of herself, it’ll take away some of my grievances. That the three kids he left behind will live a life full of answers instead of questions. My mom sometimes doesn’t realize that he left his wife behind too.
The trees are still sleeping, and the streets are still icy, but on Christmas morning I will wake up. When I am opening my presents, I will look at my mom, the strongest woman I know, and I will see her.
I will see her like she has been seeing me for all these years.
