Since my mother died, Ive been trying to understand my own seasons of grief.
When I see the crocuses come in, I know relief is on its way.
My mother Claudias deep, unabiding love of Christmasor, as she called it, Crimpusexacerbates this loss.
Photo: Courtesy of Joanna Solotaroff
His bulbous, bright orange plastic eyes watched over us every Christmas.
The chocolate gelthalf-off at that point, since Hannukah was usually overfelt like exotic talismans.
We would talk and talk and talk as we charted out my life together.
Abelard, in all his glory.
The holiday isnt what made Christmas magic; it was my mother.
Both of my parents had terribly unfair and unhappy childhoods, finding softness and recognition in one another.
They were all perfectly strange and perfectly us: playful, loving, and a bit improvisational.
Abelard, in all his glory.
Two years ago, my husband and I went to Puerto Rico to celebrate with his parents.
Plus, I just felt like a terrible house guest.
I closed my eyes and visions of holiday parties and sparkling wine and laughter danced through my head.
This year, I know that I have certain touchstones to get me through the holiday.
I have my husband, I have my gym, and friends staying in the city for the holidays.
I have the reassurance of knowing that my father is well taken care of in his senior living community.
I have my deli guy who always greets me with a Baby!!!!
You always make my day with your smile!!!
He looks like a moron!
(Its a closed-circuit survival tool that harms no one when I am feeling particularly salty.)
There was another tradition in our house.
She got a new one for me every year, and they always felt wonderfully anachronistic.
Back in Minneapolis for Thanksgiving, I hadnt yet found an ornament that was Claudia-worthy.
What I found was a little golden duck Christmas ornament.
(Ducks were herthing.)
Im not sure how it made it there, but I dont think it ever hung on a tree.
We pick up a tree tomorrow.
