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.