Like second albums and last goodbyes, it’s the first Christmas after the death of a loved one that is supposed to be the hardest. It’s kind of obvious, I suppose. But it’s not my experience so far. With the tree still up and the recycling bin still ridiculously overfed on paper and plastic, I’m not so sure I can agree. This Christmas has not been the horror that it was meant to be. In fact, I’m wondering if it might just have been the best yet.
I’m not so sure that I was dreading it, but a couple of months back I was certainly anticipating a difficult Christmas this year. Other people knew it, too; all those cards that mentioned how the sender would be ‘thinking of us especially’ helped with the feelings of being on the verge of something potentially difficult. They were appreciated. Like loved ones waving from the crowd at the start of a long race.
I need to pause and digress for a moment. We moved into our house a couple of years ago, and what with it being one of those Victorian homes with high ceilings and just enough period features to go around it’s always struck us as having significant Christmas potential. So we were disappointed when we found out that the fireplace in the front room might have looked good, but the blocked and stunted chimney above the roof meant that it was unusable.
Anyway, this autumn we finally got it all fixed up, and we’ve been spending the last few weeks sitting, staring and feeling the warmth from the fires contained within its black iron walls.
And this has been the metaphor of choice; unblocked, built up and allowed to radiate warmth and light, our year has ended far better than I had feared it would.
Why? I’ve been unsure ever since the heavy snows failed to arrive on time. Thinking now, I’m wondering if the answer is far more simple that I might otherwise suspect; Christmas feels good this year because it’s far, far simpler. Last year, with its midnight phone calls and dark conversations with compassionate nurses, was far harder for the obvious reason that we knew it would be our last with my mother. It was a ritual that we had to get through, a game we had to play while pretending that it was like any of the other 63 Christmases that she had experienced on earth. We did presents and thank you cards and our Christmas eve rituals, and they tasted as bleak and as stale as the last meal served to the condemned man. Nothing was going to change what followed it, but still we had to pretend that everything was just as it should be.
This year has been different. There have been recollections and reminiscences, but the natural gravity of the time has been allowed to win out. So the excitement of the children has been heard the loudest, the future use of the presents has not been packaged up with such sorrow and fear, and the slow burn of the coals has left me feeling warm, not wondering how long it would take to cremate a body.
So, it’s been better. I got a wind-up dynamo keyring torch and it’s yet another metaphor for the way that somehow the resources I have needed this year are within me. The stirring and the winding needs to take place to bring them out, but there’s been just enough of both to see me through and out towards the end of a year in which death became a constant theme.
Filed under: new normals
