Christmas joy. And Christmas pain. Christmas tears. Like a hard summer’s rain.
Memories of Mama’s brown hands. Making Christmas miracles once again. And again. Making gifts magically appear beneath our tree, despite our lack or poverty.
And we laughed. And danced. And laughed. And loved.
And Christmas Eve was Mama’s day — and night. And Daddy singing, “Santa Claus, go straight to the ghetto,” made everything right. And the Temptations bellowed, “Silent Night.” And we all sang along. Uplifted in our favorite Christmas songs.
And whatever problems we may have had dissolved. Ceased to revolve in our atmosphere, which, even as a child, was clear to me was so different from the Christmas worlds I saw on TV.
And yet, we had no less joy on Christmas Day. Plenty good food to eat. And toys to play. And Mama and Daddy to calibrate the real meaning of Christmas.
Except many years later, amid their mortal absence — for reasons I do not fully understand — I feel lost.
I am stuck somewhere between Christmas past and Christmas present. Between the joy of sweet memories. And the pain over life’s — and time’s — confiscations, amputations and tragedies.
Of the loss of wider family traditions. Of familial intimacies. Of the way we were and how we used to be.
Of the loss even of faces and voices that once helped bring levity — clarity — to what matters most. To the work it takes to keep family close.
So I find myself in mourning amid this the season of cheer. Filled with a river of tears that does not so easily surface from my soul. My spirit for Christmas lies frozen in the bitter cold.
And I am one-part numb. Immune to the harmonies and melodies of holiday songs. Existing in a near impenetrable cocoon as holiday cheer encroaches from all around. I move laboriously, in slow motion, unable to reconcile what was lost with what has been found.
The ghost of Christmas past torments with voices I only hear through the misty water-colored memories of my mind. With faces that comprised my whole world once upon a time.
Grandmother and Grandpa’s house, where we once gathered, is long since extinct. And I cling to seasons memories between the world and me.
And yet, it has become clear that I cannot — must not — stay here. Clear that seasons come. And seasons go. Clear that we can choose “family.” And choose to make new memories.
Choose to paint new portraits and pictorial landscapes upon which some once familiar familial faces will not be found. Because they are no longer “safe” or “good” to be around. But instead disparage, hurt, hinder, hate, bring you down.
So I mourn our loss, even before our final epitaph. Mourn the loss of our love. And laughs. Regret with deep consternation that we could not find for the sake of “us” reconciliation.
But alas, I accept that this is the path to liberation. To self-emancipation from those sometimes complicated ties that bind. To peace of mind.
The road to “serenity to accept the things I cannot change; the courage to change the things I can; and the wisdom to know the difference.”
And I have vowed this Christmas that I shall not pass this way again. Shall not linger with this heavy affliction. Shall not allow my soul to dwell upon what was lost but upon what has been gained. Upon my blessings. Not my pain.
I will embrace the joys of present and the past. And I will make new memories with “family” that will always last.
Like memories of Mama’s brown hands. Making Christmas miracles once Again. And again.
Email: Author@johnwfountain.com
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