"Remember, hearts will never be practical until they are made unbreakable."
- the Scarecrow on the "The Wizard of Oz"
AUBURN, Maine — A pair of Geminids meteors streaked across a dark, cold Maine sky, and in instant, I had this absurd thought that my deceased parents were chasing each other around the cosmos.
Grief does strange things to people during the holidays, but I am old hand at managing melancholy.
If you live long enough, you get really good at dealing with heart-wrenching loss. Now that my parents, Al and Louise, are gone forever, I work feverishly to fend off sadness — especially during the Yuletide.
Say what you will about the holiday, but the last thing I want to be remembered as is an Ebenezer Scrooge wannabe who spreads endless grief in his wake.
Christmas is no humbug. Old Jacob Marley found that out the hard way. Dickens’ wretched character was condemned to roam the night wrapped in heavy chains to atone for his indifference to his fellow man. Scrooge was taken out for a walk by the three spirits on Christmas Eve and given a comeuppance he never forgot for ignoring forlorn souls drowning in endless poverty.
Nobody wants to be the guy who spoils everybody’s good cheer with his poison personality. For me, holidays are for gathering up what’s left of our family to celebrate another year of good food and cheer.
There is a huge emptiness we all face everyday, and that void gets deeper during the holidays.
Perhaps, Christmas is like a role call of who is still here and serves as reminder that every day you reach for your morning cup of coffee is a good day — and you only have so many on this earth.
Thanksgiving and Christmas are two holidays that trigger our worn-out memories of the past. Sentimentality rises to the top when decorating the tree, wandering around crowded store aisles or preparing a traditional holiday dish. A special ornament your late mom gave you makes your eyes water as you place it on a tree. Christmas songs chime about the specialness of the holiday, but many face this day with a heavy heart.
I still browse the aisles marveling at those innovative toys. Another new line of Legos — my son’s favorite gift under the tree— is introduced to shoppers. Then I remember he is now behind of the wheel of a car and those plastic building blocks of his childhood no longer amuse him.
Alas, my son is 18 and his adult toys consist of skis, watches, a cell phone and history books. His childhood slowly disappeared with each inch he grew. The little boy who meant so much to us has grown into a fine young man, and while I am proud of him, I miss the inquisitive child who built these intricate toy ships with Legos that littered our parlor floor.
This will be our first Christmas without my parents, and while I have done an impressive job of spreading good cheer, there is that ever-present emptiness.
Look, I have seen the face of depression and watched loved ones disappear into that long tunnel of desperation. I won’t allow grief to swallow me whole. The long walk back from slipping into that dreadful darkness is too steep for me to climb.
So I will buy the presents, make the shrimp linguine, enjoy a holiday meal with my sisters and grieve for my father — all at the same time. The two-hour trip to Boston will be a welcomed diversion from the daily chore of missing a man I admired all my life.
We will make merry on Christmas Eve, but we will also notice the empty chairs on that special night.
And there’s not a damn thing we can do about our heavy losses except embrace the memories of them, and of course, raise a toast to all who are present at the dinner table for another holiday.
