My dear friends,
The winter solstice is upon us and with it, the light returns, nanosecond by nanosecond. The sun set at 4:30 here today. I know so many people who dread this time of year, the darkness and dreariness that can accompany it. I have always loved it, and this year even more.
Most people I talk to these days warn me that the holidays will be difficult. Evidently, it’s common for the first holidays after a loved one dies to be the most grief-ridden. I can see why, after all, these moments that are so marked by tradition will never be the same.
If ever you want to have a deep, nuanced understanding of the concept of “both/and” or holding multiple feelings at the same time, none of which cancel the other out, walk the path of a long grueling illness and death. Thus far in my lifetime, there has been nothing that highlights the paradox of human emotion like this.
My family hasn’t gathered for holidays in four years. Between the pandemic and my dad’s illness, it just felt too complicated to have us all in one place at the same time. The times we did gather felt stymied and fraught. Some people want all their family around as they are walking closer to the end, my dad wanted quiet, and so we honored that.
A few days before Christmas last year we learned bad news. I honestly can’t remember what the news was at this point, the roller coaster was so long. The year before he was recovering from surgery. Both years I distinctly remember sitting on my sofa in front of the fireplace and feeling a heavy dread creep into my belly. My sister and her family sat in their house, trying to celebrate, Brian and I sat in ours, trying to find some merriment. Mom and Dad were at their house, trying to keep going along as normal as possible.
This year, I’m looking forward to holiday music and raucous laughter with my family. I am looking forward to bickering and shedding tears together. I am on the edge of my seat anticipating the utter exhaustion and full heart I’ll feel after too many days with so many people.
Maybe it seems insensitive to say all this so shortly after he’s passed from our lives. I miss his voice in my ear “Sarah, this is your dad calling…” or the look on his face when one of us said something goofy. But I will not miss these last months of coughing and choking, silence and worry, though I wouldn’t give them up for the world. I want to banish them from my memory and yet I make myself remember every second. I want to hold him close and turn to what comes next.
Today I walked on one of my favorite paths, past one of my most sacred places. As I gazed out over the ridge above the river, I allowed myself to look forward. As I looked out toward the next days and weeks when the horizon will stay lighter a little longer, I felt lighter. Pounds, stones, cartloads lighter.
Keep reading with a 7-day free trial
Subscribe to Bewonderment to keep reading this post and get 7 days of free access to the full post archives.