Suffocating Santa

Normally the unveiling of the Santa under the tree would be a momentous occasion for our family. A cause for a phone call made for the sole purpose of taunting his former owner. A sight that would officially ring in the Christmas season for this particular household. Today, or yesterday if we want to be exact, his rosy cheeks only made me cry.

I still cannot believe my father is gone. When the call came back in May with the devastating news that a mass had been discovered and even when the depressing pathology report was later read aloud, I distinctly remember thinking,

At least we'll have Christmas.

I never expected to say good-bye as autumn was just beginning.

I mourn my father every day. A few weeks ago, I dreamed about him for the first time since he's been gone. In that dream, he appeared similar to how he looked as his days on earth came to an end. He was thinner and his hair was cropped short, but he wore no glasses and he was by no means weak. He sat on the end of a couch by two men I did not know and patted his knee for me to sit on his lap. As I sat on my father's lap, he wrapped a blanket around me and simply said, "Tell me about your day." I talked and talked until the sound of my alarm shattered what had been an absolutely perfect dream. I found myself angry and resentful all over again.

I loved my dad.

We talked almost every day. It's rather difficult to go from that to...

Nothing.

The Santa that sits under the tree belonged to my parents' household. I'm not quite sure how I inherited him, but inherit him I did and for years my household has enjoyed having him under our many Christmas trees. Always, always I would call my dad the moment Santa was in place and we usually played the game of "how did he end up there?" It was just one of those family jokes. This year, however, there was no laughing. When we began unpacking Christmas totes yesterday, I was caught off guard when those rosy cheeks and mushed beard peeked out at me. To be honest, I plunked him back inside a plastic bag so fast that if Santa had been real, he would have stood zero chance of surviving his oxygen-deprived environment. My heart sank as the reality of this Christmas set in harder than a block of concrete sinking the sweetest of dreams. I even entertained the thought of "not this year, Santa." As far as I was concerned, that plastic bag could be his tomb for at least another year.

But then the tree was up.

The husband trimmed it perfectly.
The youngest decorated it beautifully.
The cats sniffed it appropriately.

Only one thing, one item, one memory was missing.

I know people say to remember the memories. I know my mom has heard that saying often. I know there's a lot of truth to that and I do believe that time has a way of healing all wounds, but for now just bear with me.

My heart breaks when I look at that Santa and yet I firmly believe he is right where he needs to be. My dad wouldn't have it any other way. Tears fall down my cheeks, though, as I write this and inside... well, inside there is that dull ache that threatens to shut me down completely.

Until I look at that tree.

Full of ornaments. Full of lights. Full of hope.

Loaded with memories.

Especially the one tucked underneath the branches.




Breathe, Santa.
Breathe deep.

Memories Don't Cost A Dime

Antique shopping has a way of knocking the wind out of me. Maybe I think too much. Maybe I over think everything. Whatever it may be, I am a thinker and all that thinking can bring me down, or at the very least, cause me to spend an entire afternoon thinking about life.

I cannot help myself.

I look at wedding gowns tossed casually over chairs and think about the girl who wore that gown at some point in time. The pride. The hope. The heartache? My own wedding gown is tucked away sealed inside a box at my mom's house. Will it one day take up space in some dusty back corner of a downtown shop with no one near to tell the story of the day that dress made a walk down the aisle? You see, I don't see so much the fabric left behind... I see the dream that it enveloped.

My dad and me.

I look at military uniforms and ribbons and medals... some preserved under a glass case and others collecting the silky trails of a rogue spider spinning its web. Their stories of courage and dedication lost to the ages. I long to hear the tales behind each worn name tag. These were sons, daughters, husbands, and wives. These were lives lived. How do such treasured items make their way into the hands of strangers? Is there no family left?

I look at paintings and see the soul sitting just behind the eyes. I browse through books and think about the people who turned the pages. I tinker with kitchen gadgets and relive memories of my grandma. I spend an hour and a half sifting through the memories of other people and walk out without buying a thing.

Taxing on the mind.
Easy on the wallet.

Happy Antiquing.

For Love Of Country

I'm a little ashamed of myself.

How in the world have I been blogging this long and yet not have one entry on Veterans Day?

Memorial Day. Check.
Independence Day. Check.
Labor Day. Check.

Heck, I've even got a well-written entry (I am my biggest fan, after all) on what I like to call "It Stinks To Be Single Day." Birthdays, Thanksgiving, Christmas... covered. Anniversaries? Been there.

But Veterans Day?

Shockingly silent.

I have got to be missing something.

Even so, allow me to share with you my thoughts on tomorrow. I am so looking forward to it. Not only do I get to watch a parade that will take place right outside my classroom window, but I also get to kick off first period with a invigorating lesson on the signing of the Declaration of Independence. In my world, life in middle school doesn't get much better than that.

Veterans Day.

Armistice Day.

November 11, 1918.

The eleventh day of the eleventh month at the eleventh hour.

The day the world would record as the end of "the war to end all wars."

As history has taught us, however, the decades would tick by and we would come to accept that, in fact, The Great War was not the war to end all wars. As a result, our country would shift the focus of Armistice Day to a day of honoring the veterans of America for "their patriotism, love of country, and willingness to serve and sacrifice for the common good."

I especially appreciate that part about love of country. Why else would the citizens of a nation voluntarily (setting aside the mandatory draft, of course) raise their right hand and swear an oath to support and defend the Constitution of the United States? Medical benefits and a decent pension plan can only account for so much of that dedication, you know.

At any rate, by all means, thank a vet tomorrow and every day.

And if you're in the neighborhood, swing by my class around 8:05 in the morning. I'll be the one up front singing the praises of the patriots and trying my best to help a room full of teenagers appreciate the risk that fifty-six men took when they dipped their quills to the inkwell and signed a document so profound it ignited a riot in New York City that ultimately destroyed a nearby statue of King George III (which interestingly enough, would later be melted down and molded into over 40,000 musket balls for the American army).

You gotta love history.




*quoted material courtesy of http://www.va.gov/opa/vetsday/vetdayhistory.asp

Unraveling

When my dad passed away, I spent a lot of time thinking about vapor and smoke and life drifting away. Now that six weeks have slipped by, I find myself thinking less about life being gone and more about life being inescapable.

If my life were made of thread, then I would surely be unraveling.