I’m feeling blue. Probably because Serge is away, and I’m tired of missing him. Only two more bloody weeks. I hope he’s okay, and that he comes home safe and sound. I also miss my mother. She passed away two and a half years ago, May 17 2004. The holidays just get harder and harder each year to deal with. I used to be comforted by Christmas because it reminded me of her, how much she loved the season, decorating, glittering ornaments, singing Christmas carols, lighting candles, buying gifts for others. I have found myself to become more generous since she passed, wanting to buy gifts for everyone for no reason at all, just to show how much I love the people in my life. I want to, I enjoy doing it, I enjoy giving and watching the expression of joy on people’s faces, hearing how much the gift touched them and lifted their spirits, enabling them to carry on through a difficult day. That is their gift to me, their gratitude. I love the people in my life, and I am so lucky and grateful to have them.
Despite my joy of giving, I am left feeling sad and empty at the same time, mostly because grief is visiting me. The heavy feeling it brings weighs my heart down, so heavy I can’t get off the couch, or away from the television. My laundry and dishes are piled up high, my limbs become cement blocks when I move them. I feel dizzy and weak, and I know it’s not the flu that I’m getting over. The gifts that grief bestow are countless memories of her, her smile, her laugh, generosity, kind spirit, her music, her sadness and demons that weighed her down in her mortal life. I miss her so. I would give anything to go back in time and comfort her.
I dreamt the other night we were together in the house I grew up in. We went upstairs, which was all locked up and dusty, full of items from my childhood, boxes of papers and toys scattered the hallway. We unlocked the door to my tiny bedroom that was attached to my parent’s bedroom. It was more like a large walk-in closet that could fit a single bed and a shelf. She decorated it just for me – pink and white roses wall paper that even covered the low, slanted ceiling, white painted trim, the little wicker lamp hanging from the metal pipe that stretched from floor to ceiling. There was a tiny box window in the upper-corner that provided homes for transient spiders in its sill, providing them with a view of the treelined street below through the web of ivy that grew over the screen. We went through my stuff, looking for trinkets I could take back with me. We explored the bedrooms of my other siblings, opened dusty dresser drawers, empty except for a marble or pencil rolling across the wooden bottoms. We found slips of paper, old name tags. We sat on the old quilted mattress that covered my parent’s custom-made bed that folded into the wall in their bedroom/home office, and spoke of old times, when we were happy as a family. Or at least when we thought we were happy.
I gaze at my Christmas tree. I purchased it the December before she died. She called me the day I started decorating it. I answered the phone, “Ho, ho ho!” and she was just silent in return, not knowing how to respond. I laughed and said, “Mom, it’s me!” and she said,”Oh, well, Ho ho ho to you!” in an unimpressed voice. I told her I bought a fake tree, and she was horrified. A fake tree was sacreligious in her book. But I tried to convince her it looked great with all my beautiful decorations. I could tell she wanted to believe me, but just couldn’t. She only knew the bad fake trees of the seventies. They look much more realistic nowadays. But she was still happy for me, and we talked about our plans for Christmas. We both wished we weren’t so far away from eachother.
I was so excited with my first tree, and it is indeed beautiful. It looks like a Christmas card picture; the little white lights glowing against the deep evergreen branches like still fireflies resting for the season, providing their goodwill, lighting the way for the decorations to shine. I hung red and cream glass balls, clear handblown glass balls, handcrafted decorations with deep reds and golds, tall, skinny metal St. Nicks, shimmering, sheer gold and red bows and sashes draping the edges. A soft, woven blanket drapes its base, carefully holding the brightly wrapped presents.
I dedicate the season to Frederika Blaak (DeJong). It’s just not the same without her. I love you Mom, may you rest in peace.
xoxoxoxoxoxox
blaak sheep 