By Patricia St. Clair
It was during that period of
time after the hungry feasters snaked through the line of platters,
bowls and trays of assorted delights, but prior to the point when
the reality of the quantity eaten exceeds the norm. Just a glance at
the dessert table with enough confections to put even the most
sedentary soul on a sugar high is incentive enough to linger in
hopes that the consumed food would shift downwards and leave a gap
for the addition of a dessert.
Having dutifully polished off
the usual turkey and dressing (et al), I took the advantage given me
as a first-time visitor to the home of my husband’s cousin for a
holiday feast. I strategically positioned myself at one end of a
sofa nearest the roaring fire and realized that my location provided
me with a bird’s-eye view of all in attendance. The ongoing football
game could be heard, but in the background only - not as an
attention grabber. Being a people watcher by nature, I found myself
observing interactions between friends, between family members and
strangers (I include myself in this category), and most importantly,
between members of the same families. It was as if an old 45 record
had been played at the speed of a 78. No rushing through the meal to
get elsewhere. No importance placed on the ongoing football game,
other than occasional glances. Children mingled with family pets
both inside and out, as multi-colored leaves continued to float
gently to the ground from the plethora of trees outside the picture
windows.
“Straight from a Rockwell
painting” I began to think, until the sight of what was to become my
undoing shot through me like an arrow.
Let me first clue-in the reader
to the fact that I’m an only child - or I was prior to losing my
father in 1981 and my mother in 1999. I no longer am a daughter to
anyone. The loss of my mother was devastating to me and still is in
many ways. Since the year immediately following her death, during
which I refused to participate in any holiday festivities, I have
slowly realized that I do have a husband who, although outdoes
himself in the patience department, is also a functioning part of my
life and one who needs emotional support. Therefore, following the
first anniversary of Mother’s death, I have made a valiant attempt
during each holiday season to “be there” for him, whether it be a
functioning part of me or not. During that first year, I read the
grief books on becoming an “orphan”....I attended grief counseling
sessions at my church....I gave Oprah my undivided attention when
she aired shows dealing with the loss of a loved one. I feel as if I
did everything I could do to get past the fact that the one person
with whom I had been a best friend with for my entire life was no
longer present to share the good or the bad times with me.
I realize the operative word in
that sentence is “me.” “Me” is the problem. “Me” builds the walls
around which no one can advance. “Me” cries the tears that are in no
way meant for my loved one. They are meant for “me.” Who is the one
who gets hurt when a memory invades an already-delicate holiday
festivity? It’s certainly not the loved one who has transitioned to
a place about which I’ve only read.
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