Christmas...

Christmas is coming, Christmas is coming
The old familiar chimes
The sky is falling, the sky is falling
My mother about to die
I wish I could hide
I wish I could die
While the earth starts to sing
Rejoice and be glad
But I can't for I'm sad
Nothing means what it should
What it did, what I knew
It's a reminder of everything bad
Christmas is dead like her, it used to be alive. Alive with her spirit, her singing and baking. Transforming the house with all her decorating. Alive with tradition and music and magic.
Presents under the tree from Santa, all the pretty shining things, sparkly bows and new stocking all lit up by her smile, the sparkle of joy in her crystal eyes. All of those things that made it special, that made me love the season were her, and by her death destroyed.
The day she died I took down her tree
Her last tree
I was crying inside
Dying inside and fighting the urge to scream!
Carefully wrapped the breakable glass, while my grandma and aunt cleaned, as if it meant something.
I wanted to hide, to pour out the dirty laundry and be surrounded by her smell, to remember the arms that held me and loved me so well.
The fragility of ornaments their own kind of symbolism on a day i wish I had never lived through. Her lovely belongings, the care she took to decorate despite the pain she felt, knowing her suffering neared it's end.
Ugly reminders ugly reminders all
Of the vicious blow we were dealt
There is no magic in Christmas after you've lived such a thing.
I'd like to forget, pray to never remember, but nothing works to calm the anger. The white hot rage of losing her.
I have to sing the songs we knew and bake the cookies to celebrate when I'd rather relive losing her than try to make sense of living without her, as strange as that might sound.
This is the second Christmas without her and I can't remember her smell. These festive holidays she loved so much are their own special brand of Hell.
Maybe it would be better if this....or better if that....no it all sucks the same. The sewing and singing, baking and bringing...ugly reminders all.
Reminders of death, of loss, of childhood magic now gone.
The tears spring freely and I notice a moment too late. Trying to hide them from the too wise eyes of a too young to have known so much pain child. He should know the magic of Christmas, it shouldn't be tinged with grief. He should know the laughter and singing this season is supposed to bring.
So I bake and sing and wrap and craft, do all the glittery things I used to do before life exploded.
But there is no joy in Christmas after Mama dies. There is no joy in Christmas save that of the joy it brings to my child. I hope he doesn't notice the energy it takes me, and I hope that I make it as magical as she did for we three orphans.
God damn I hate Christmas, and surely I'll go to hell for thinking it and saying the words aloud. I wish I could skip the season entirely. It's just a countdown now. Christmas then new years filled with her agony. Then her death day, then her birthday. I don't want to celebrate any of it!