This is a post for those who grieve and those whose hearts have known the depths of loss.
Christmas is my favorite time of year. Christmas is hard for me. Both of those things are true in equal measure. I countdown the days until it arrives, and on a day like today, as I am packing it up and putting it back in boxes, I weep.
I just packed up a seashell that my mother hand painted silver so she could hang it on the tree, I packed up an angel ornament that was hers when she was a child, a dedicated, fragile thing over 85 years old. I packed away an ice skating girl who my Daddy let me pick out when I was 8 and trying to learn to ice skate. I could hear his voice saying “She looks just like you!”
I cried when I saw my mother’s handwriting on recipes. I cried when my Dad’s favorite Christmas carol played.
My parents are gone. My sister is gone. All of my grandparents are gone. I am the keeper of all the memories, and all the stories, and all the history of what once was my life.
Sometimes people tell me I’m a hoarder because I have all these boxes of things – but they contain treasures to my family and I’m the only one left to protect them, to remember them, to tell our stories.
I do not say these things to make you feel sorry for me. I don’t feel sorry for myself. I just feel especially lonely sometimes.
But the reason for that loneliness is because I was deeply loved. Nearly every ornament on my Christmas tree has a story behind it. The oldest one, my Mama’s angel. The newest one, Jeff and I picked out in Cozumel on our 30th anniversary cruise.
My Christmas tree tells the story of my family on every branch, and sometimes, left with just the memories and not the ones I made them with sometimes make me cry.
Those who grieve will understand. – Tamilu 01.13.19
Forest Gumping my way through life 
Leave a comment