Today is one of those melancholy days; self reflection seems to be the guiding force dictating the unraveling of the hours from morning until dusk turns into dark, the world closing in around me as night finds the small hamlet in which I reside. Today was spent digging out my small abode from the holiday season just past, taking down my small tree, wrapping each ornament back up with tissue paper for a long season's nap, each one bringing with it memories of days so long ago past.
Remember decorating the tree with my mother, she always happy; smiling at that time of the year, Christmas holding special meaning for her. Recall the first time I found out that there was no Santa Claus, the pain of that truth softened when she allowed me to stay up late to help her wrap presents for my three younger siblings who still nurtured and believed in that dream of a jolly old man coming down our chimney, his sack full of toys for all the good little boys and girls. She passed away back in 1993, yet there is not a holiday,not a Mother's day that goes by that thoughts of her don't find a way of creeping in. I still smile at the thought of her and I taking down the family tree, putting away ornaments, everyone else no where in site, wanting nothing to do with the task of putting Christmas away, though they were all there to help put it up.
A lot of those Christmas's from so long ago seem jumbled up together. Separating and defining just a singular Christmas with any clarity an impossible task, though I can recall certain gifts vividly, know the exact year I got them. There was my first bike without training wheels...it was used, but Dad had put a new banana seat on it (teal metal flake blue green vinyl top with a white leather side, grips and streamers to match. Then there was the Christmas it seemed like Santa had not been overly kind where I was concerned until Mom brought out my new fishing rod, reel and tackle box that she had hidden behind the couch. I had so much fun that day casting out in the snow, seemingly immune to the frigid temperatures on that wonderful day.
Looking back, knowing at 56 that Mom, Dad and all the grandparents are long gone, it's bittersweet to see all the traditions I have managed to keep alive, sadder still knowing I have no offspring who will carry those traditions on once I have left this space we call earth.
Sitting here at my office desk in the kitchen, nibbling on the last of the turkey from Thanksgiving I took out of the freezer earlier today can peer into the living room, all traces of the three back to back holidays gone and out of site. The various boxes and shopping bags full of decorations tucked away here and there, not to be seen again until the end of this New Year. A life time of memories taken out, examined as I went through my day, it is hard to hold back the tears of loss I feel at all those things and people who are no more. Funny, not in a ha ha way, how the older we get the more precious those Easters, Memorial Days, 4th of July's and all the rest become, how we wonder just how many more we individually are destined to enjoy before there are no more.
I don't fear death, am seeing more of it with each passing year, friends and family passing as I approach 60, realizing at best that my own life is at least 3/4 done, but it is not a final curtain call I am looking forward too. I look at my stuff, each little thing special to me in its own unique way, imbued with a magical power to bring back to the forefront of my mind the day and time when it came into my life. My possessions not defining me, but acting as props used in the telling of my life's story. With that knowledge of what those things represent, I wonder what will become of them when I am gone, wonder what becomes of the story that is my life when those things are scattered to the seven winds. Do fear that when I am gone, my things no longer gathered for display in one place, there will be no one there to tell the story of who I was, no one there to share the tales of my childhood, no one there who can share with the world what it was like to be in the kitchen with my Mom, baking cookies on a cold snowy day in December in preparation for the Christmas that was/is about to begin.
*This post is dedicated to Wes Tern who passed away, losing his own brief bout with cancer, this post is dedicated to all of his friends who gathered at his house here in Mountaindale, each of them honoring his memory by taking little things from his house with them, giving those items a place of honor in their abodes so that his story, small parts of his life will carry on as the things that told his story find a new role, become a part of another story as his possessions become the props that will help each of them recall their own memories of times and friends past. God's speed Wes.
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