Sadness…
Finally returning
To the family Christmas
After years of not going
As self-penance
For uttering the word “divorce”…
Once again, I sit at the dinner table--
The table expanded no more--
Quietly missing the missing faces.
My dad’s deep voice,
In turn, jovial, joking, thoughtful, passionate
Reminiscing or discussing or contemplative;
My brother-in-law’s soft, easy-going voice,
Always with a laugh just beneath the surface;
My mom’s bright “company” voice
With her neediness trumping all else.
The sounds of young children romping,
Three sounding like half-a-dozen,
Just a happy background,
Or the rare parental intervention needed
To settle a quarrelsome dispute--
Now adults, scattered their various ways
Not here, today,
Maybe another year.
The ghosts sit behind us,
Quietly urging normality.
I talk more than usual--
To cover our sadness,
To fill the missing gaps from missing voices,
The ones who added life to the party--
David with his easy-going voice and quick laugh;
Mom, who loved a party, loved the attention,
And Dad—well, Dad could be a clown,
Or fit into serious conversation,
But most of all,
He loved just having his family around,
Being happy.
And with the other ghosts of Christmas past,
A not-ghost but a missing presence,
Scowling from beside me,
Nagging me to leave early,
Not wanting to be there but
Disgusted at being left out
When he had only to join in, if he wanted--
Never fitting in,
Coveting the relationship
But critical of all around him,
Impatient to leave
As soon as dinner was done
And packages opened…
He never was happy at his,
Never accepting
That the importance was the people,
That people give from their hearts…
Never accepting their hearts.
Why, oh why, do I miss his presence?
I do not know,
Only that I do--
It seems as if his absence
Only highlights all the changes.
A sadness among the other sadnesses
For the missing,
A grief for what never was--
No quiet contentment
Or easy belonging...
Christmas, that season of great joy
Turned into sadness
For awhile
Until the uneasy ghosts subside.
And become instead a comfort and a memory
While God collects my tears and records them.[1]
[1] “You keep track of all my sorrows. You have collected all my tears in your bottle. You have recorded each one in your book.” Psalm 56:8 [NLT]