Christmas

The anticipation of an event is always worse than the event itself. I wasn’t looking forward to Christmas. The thought in fact left me with a ball of nerves and anticipation in the pit of my stomach, wondering how we were going to get through it.

In the end though, the excitement of the children swept all of us up in a tsunami of joy and sugar. By the evening, I felt like I’d been battered against the rocks all day, but it was a good battered, not a war weary exhaustion.

Boxing day, we were left with a detritus of packaging and watermelon rind. Slowly we cleaned up in preparation for another family barbeque, an informal affair. We sat around, watching the children play and eating and if I thought about the person we were missing, it was only briefly.

I couldn’t afford to be sad you see. Because of the children.

Boxing day evening though, as I cleant up yet more packaging and randomly dropped cherry pits, I was allowed to be sad. I was able to miss her, my grandmother. She of the larger than life personality and the most holiday cheer.

It was a hard year, this year. I watched her die, in front of me with tears in my eyes. I nodded my head and along with the rest of us there, I gave her permission to go. It was a hard year, traversing the realms of grief, watching those around me walk the same path in a slightly different fashion.

It was a hard year, as I thought about things I’d not had to think about before, as I helped pack up a house for sale and weighed possessions in my hands.

In the end though, the anticipation of Christmas was worse than the day itself. I’ve got the children to thank for that.

But for a while, I think I need to curl up into myself and be sad, to miss her desperately, to want her here with us. Selfish, yes, but she was mine and we were hers and not having her here leaves us all lacking.

And that lacking breaks my heart.