In The Holidays

Holidays


It is ironic what you think about when a person is dying, transitioning into the next world. My brother thought of holidays. All the Christmas and Easter with my parents and all those holidays our mother would miss. We were talking to her as she was off the support system, telling her what she meant to us.

Although holidays were always good, I had thought of how I was one years old when she carried me into our first and only house. I actually remember how she treated it as a holiday with balloons and a welcome sign. My parents were surprised I actually remember all of this. But I remember the blue blanket, the smell of my mother’s perfume, the ribbon cutting ceremony, the noise poppers.

Before then, we lived in an apartment which had no doors and rats. I remember the rats. One climbed in the crib with me. It was not long after that my father had a job and they went looking for houses. My memory is that deep. Each house was empty, the floors were shiny, and there were doors inside for the bedrooms and closets and kitchen cupboards. Best of all there were no rats. And each time, my mother treated each house viewing as if it was a holiday. For her, every day was a holiday, an adventure, her first child, her first house, and she celebrated the whole experience.

In a way, my brother was right. For our mother made each holiday important. She would start planning the next Christmas the day after Christmas.

Death does not have to be tragic, although it is. It can also be a celebration. She can be moving into her second house, where she can explore every room. She can cut the ribbon. This world is more than holidays and presents. This world can be challenges and happiness and disappointments. When we die, it is the greatest adventure.