Sunday after Christmas

Christmas was quiet. We barely got dressed for the day. We opened gifts, then dawdled and dozed and finally tidied ourselves, went to the store, and cooked the feast. We ate at close to 10 pm, just the four of us and a friend of my son's. We ate turkey and stuffing, honey ham and a corn and cheese soufflé, the plates balanced on our knees. My daughter made a caramel apple pie, the crust flaky and perfect. We drank port, which made me sleepy. Earlier, I'd worked on an editing job that's due this week, which made it, really, just like any other day. I tried not to think about it being Christmas, the first without my mother. I called my aunts, my brother, cousins.

This morning, I woke with relief that the dreams I'd entertained all night faded to vapors in the daylight. Still, the vapors clung. Then came the news from my husband's brother that one of their aunts had died on Christmas day. Our elders are taking their leave, reuniting with beloveds on the other side. I walk slowly and breathe mindfully. I sit at the dining table scrutinizing puzzle pieces to quiet my churning brain. My daughter joins me and we have a chatty and companionable time showing the puzzle that no matter how it tries to hide its connections, we will persevere. 

This was what it looked like at about 9 a.m. on Christmas morning. The vibe didn't change much throughout the day, which made my husband happy. He said the laid-back pace was just the day he needed. On Boxing Day, we sent a happy birthday video to my niece in Jamaica and my cousin from Trinidad arrived to spend the rest of the holidays with us. Her mother died when she was in her early 20s; she said that every Christmas since then has been melancholy. Now I know how she feels. But we go on. After all, we can't stay under the covers and pretend the day is not happening. We do our best for our loved ones. We find our joy, in them.