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| Decorating the tree the night before my birthday. A tradition I shared with Gareth. |
Sunday, November 30th.
I taught you this: that
December was a month
to celebrate. That the
eve of my birthday was
the time for warm cocoa
and warmer pajamas,
both to be enjoyed after
decorating whatever tree
was suitable to drag into
my home; a 6-foot pine
dropping fresh needles
as it births itself through
my front entryway or a
12-inch plastic tree with
globs of visible glue holding
it together- a poor substitute,
but, hey, we're in Korea. The
point was this: on December
8th, a tree gets decorated.
Pajamas are worn. Bing
Crosby tells me once
again that he's dreaming
of a white Christmas, and
when the work is done,
there is nothing to do but
sit back, sip from a mug
almost too hot to keep in
your hands without rotating
it to find the cooling spots,
and marvel in a room lit
up by tiny lights as though
we've never seen anything
like it before. This is what's
done. This is December.
I taught you this: that
the first snowfall of the
year is best when it happens
while we're fast asleep in
the night. And it's best if
it happens in December. That
waking up to a world illumi-
nated by such magic is a thing
of great luck. A time to run
to the window- whichever
has the best view-to press
our hands, noses, and fore-
heads to the cold glass, and
to feel ourselves quiet while
all other sounds out there
speak up: the scratch of a
shovel, the crunch of a car
tire, the break of a branch.
All of this stillness, our own
stillness, comes of course
after the cheering. My
cheering. The jumping in
place. The outward expressions
of glee I've been practicing
each year at snow's first fall
since I was a child. This is
how it's done when snow
first falls. And
you taught me this: that
gifts can be hidden in the
most delightful places. That
toes have the right to find
something hidden in a shoe.
That a stretch in bed can
yield a present's discovery
in the far reaches where
my limbs usually don't go.
That the small empty space
behind the milk carton in
our squeaky-doored fridge
makes a perfectly acceptable
place for a gift to hide. And
you taught me this: that
a breakfast tastes better on
your birthday if made by
someone you love. That
when you are loved like this
you want to float right up to
wherever God is, take him
by the face, and kiss him
RIGHT on the lips for
giving you such a beautiful
life. You want to do this with
great speed and fly right
back through the chilly
winter skies to the kitchen
where your love sits across
the table from you. You
want to bolt from your
chair again, because you
forgot to thank God- thank
Him for making your birthday
land in a wintery month, thank
Him for bringing into the
air a chill meant to be
attended to by the warm
embrace of your love. And
this time, when you return
from your Heavenly journey,
you bypass your own chair
to kneel before your love.
Your warm love in his grey
cardigan, arms held out
to take you in. This is how
it is to be. This is December.
Tomorrow December
comes with its invitations
to canceled moments. It
doesn't know yet that you
are not here. This is why
I weep at the unexpected
sight of a city square lit up
in strands of white, a make-
shift tree at its center. This
is why the stockings sent
by mom last year, the ones
with the "G" and the "B"
sewn into the front, are
buried deep in a box under
the other things I can't
seem to unpack: the 12-inch
tree, the strands of lights,
the warm pajamas that you
called my "sweetie pants,"
the cds of my favorite
Christmas songs waiting
for the evening of the 8th.
Teach me something this
December, my love. Teach
me to embrace old customs,
if that will bring me joy.
Teach me to search out new
traditions with an open heart.
Teach me to let the love
of others be not a substitute
for the love you cannot be
here to show, but a reminder
of why you loved me in the
first place. That I was born,
December 9th, a little after
3 o'clock in the morning, at
Silver Cross Hospital in
Joliet, Illinois- to parents Phil
and Mary Hengen, on the most
glorious of snowy winter days.
That in that moment, I fell
into love with being. With
being here. With being me.
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