Happy Holidays

Off to Chicago tomorrow. Ready to endure the security delays, the crowded flight, the throngs of family all broken into bite-sized pieces over numerous homes, the endless food, the off-putting sensation of being in a foreign bed, the subtle differences of American culture between Chicago and Seattle, the complete lack of moisture in the air, the rituals, the usual faces, the red and green and the ornaments and lights, the crispness of Midwest air, the hints that snow comes over the northern skies, the gray lick on the streets were the salt trucks left their stains, the threadbare trees which look like upraised bony fingers, the quiet broken by the tinny voices from my mom's favorite AM radio hosts, bulky sweaters, darkness at 2 p.m.

Tonight, we pack. Tomorrow, we begin our own tradition of going away. We shall miss our cats. We shall miss our bed. But this is the time for family, and our antisocial ways begin to ebb. Perhaps it is the primal fear of the seasonal darkness, and we must retreat to greater numbers, numbers rich with people we know. Well-decorated caves, with garland and other greenery. My grandmother will be there, presiding in her 88th year, and that's probably the best gift of them all. She's still with us, and we have another holiday together.

Family Ties with Holiday Ribbon

Finally got through to my grandma, who sounded 'old,' where the spirit starts to take on the weight of a body that's growing too worn out from natural use. There's a deepness in her voice, a bit of exhaustion that lingers to a finality. My mom had relayed to me that when my grandma had her recent spell, she seemed to be giving up the fight. Now, she's back home and comfortable with my mom and step-dad. The medication is keeping her upright and devoid of suffering, but there's little life in her voice. It could be because she's just tired, but the tone makes me want to be there even faster. It's a futile and selfish desire to want to help her. She has all the help she needs, and I want to be there to soothe my guilt for not being there the rest of the time.

But my grandma is getting a slew of visitors. It's almost as if my mom's house has become the Vatican, with my grandma being a cooler, more with-it pontiff. So, she's not lonely. And in a few days, my wife and I will be in Chicago, probably hovering around her too much.

I also suspect that there is a strange low-level tension at my mom's house with a daughter trying to come to terms with a dying mother, and a grandmother who sits and rests in her apartment, thinking about what was and what's beyond that personal veil of twilight when she finally bids adieu to us all. There's things to be said and not said, pleasantries that mask deeper questions about love and mortality. My wife gently reminded me that I should say what I need to so there's no regrets when her passing comes. Words fail me now, and I dread I'll turn into a crying idiot around her. I know I'll tell her I love her, but I don't know what else. Maybe this isn't something to be rehearsed. Just go and be there for mom and grandma (and my step-dad, who I imagine is negotiating this from his own island, understanding the weight of loss after losing his father not that long ago). It's Christmas, and the whole family will be together.

78

A very happy 78 months to my lovely wife. I love you and am happy we have been together for six-and-a-half years. And I know you love me since I'm going to subject you to bitter Chicago cold in a few days when we travel east to see my family for the holidays. Every month I'm amazed how much you love me as well all the kindness and support you give me, even when I'm not looking. You are my love, my center. I hope we are always together and always in love.