“Like snowflakes, my Christmas memories gather and dance — each beautiful, unique, and gone too soon.”
Deborah Whipp
I put off writing this blog long enough! As Christmas approaches, the words have been simmering in the back of my mind for weeks. I’m finally forcing myself to sit down and let them pour onto the page. This is my fifth Christmas without Emily… fifth! I can’t believe how time marches on, even though it feels as if it stood still on the day my oldest child died. The feelings of loss, regret, and longing are not as relentless as they were that first Christmas without her, seven months after she died. They’ve just descended below the surface, and all it takes is one little scratch for them to come bubbling up. Writing this blog is one big scratch, and I wanted to avoid it because when grief rears its ugly head, there is no escaping the pain. As I prepared to sit down and write about my “Christmas child,” I looked at the photos I have of her throughout her childhood with Santa, the ornaments she made from preschool through elementary school, and memories came calling like ghosts of Christmas past. Some make me smile, while others bring tears to my eyes. All of them expose the gaping hole in my heart I’d rather keep concealed.
I call Emily my “Christmas child” because while most kids love Christmas, Emily loved it with a passion that exceeded anyone I’ve ever known. She began anticipating Christmas right after her second favorite holiday, Halloween, writing up her wish list, along with Christmas crafting and present-making. We had a tradition of Santa showing up at our house on Christmas Eve. His visit was preceded by a large “thud” on the back deck, and he’d come barreling in through the patio door with a big bag of presents in tow. While Emily was thrilled beyond words, her little sister, Abby, was terrified, running up to her room, finally to be coaxed out with a new set of princess shoes. Emily’s belief in the magic of Christmas was steadfast, and she didn’t want to give it up. When she was probably a little too old to still believe in Santa, we carried on the tradition for her younger siblings. Even though “Santa” was a family friend, we all knew as “Big Dan,” Emily never put two and two together. I’ll never forget the day the illusion was shattered. A few weeks before her 10th Christmas, Emily and I stepped into a store where Big Dan was playing Santa. A former co-worker of mine happened to be walking in simultaneously. He pointed at “Santa” and said, “Look, there’s Big Dan.” Emily’s eyes widened. She looked at me and looked at “Santa,” and she instantly knew the truth. She burst into tears, and she didn’t stop crying for hours. I felt horrible. She wasn’t ready for the magic to end, and there was nothing I could do to make it better.
Even through her rebellious teenage years and after she moved out of my home, she always regained that child-like innocence at Christmas time. She and I made cookies and fudge together after my other children had lost interest in such activities. On Christmas Eve, Emily donned her Christmas pajamas and socks, wrapping herself in a Christmas blanket. She never let us skip a single tradition: Christmas Eve mass, followed by dinner, lighting the candles, reading the story of Jesus’ birth, and singing a couple of Christmas carols before finally opening presents. She made us all presents, and they were always thoughtful and artistic. On her last Christmas with us, I surprised her with a beautiful blue box made of stained glass. She had picked it out when shopping with Abby and me. I told Emily to return it to the shelf, and then I had Abby distract her. I made an excuse that I was going to the bathroom, but instead, I purchased the box. I’ll never forget the look of delight on her face when she opened it. After her death, I found the blue box in her room. It had been broken by her abusive boyfriend, who flew into rages and ripped her paintings and destroyed her things. But she had kept the broken box. I couldn’t stand to look at it and threw it away. Even writing about it now, I feel queasy. Maybe I should have kept it and tried to repair it, but what was a joyous memory had become all too painful.
Emily’s Christmas joys and sorrows are just part of the fabric of her short life. Her youngest brother, the baby of the family, is about to turn 21. Adam just returned home from college, and together we visited the mausoleum where Emily’s ashes are held to decorate a vase on her niche for Christmas. As we were leaving, Adam turned to me and said, “Mom, I can’t believe I’m about to turn 21, and that’s how old Emily was when she died. I have my whole life ahead of me.” Emily’s adult life is just a big question mark–all the “would-ofs” and “could-ofs” never to be. I mourn for the Christmas present without her and the Christmas future, the joys and the sorrows she will never know.
Faith, Hope & Courage,
Angela
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