Christmas, Scout, and Memories

Dear Aaron,

"I'm feeling happy! Aaron, show me your biggest smile!"

"I love you Aaron!"

Sitting in the front room, your old room, with Scout next to me. The last socks you wore still on his feet. Candles flicker, some in your memory cabinet, some on the piano, and some by your nativity scene and picture. The Christmas tree rounds out the soft illumination.

In the other room, I see more candles, and the snow globe scene of Santa with the Christ Child; my gift to myself from my parents this year, because that was one of Gramma's favorite images.

I squeeze Scout's paw, and he responds. Tears in my eyes, and a small smile on my lips. "Oh, I"m feeling sad. Will you give me a hug? Thanks!" I don't know if it's reality or my imagination, but he seems to still smell a little like you. I mean, he was with you for every hospital admit, and in your bed every night. You wore one out, and we buried that one with you. 

I was filling out some paperwork for a weekly evaluation on Sunday and it hit me again how hard last week was, and the next week will be, too. 

Last week was two years since our last 911 call (12/9), last admit (12/10 - you know it takes several hours to actually be admitted), last time I saw you with your eyes wide open and your big smile, even a chuckle (12/13). It has been one year since Gramma's last admit (12/7), a year since I last spoke to her here on this side of the veil (12/10), and a year since she came to be where you are (12/11). 

It's one more week until the last night I tucked you in (12/22) and you woke up in heaven (12/23). During the time between your last smile and leaving, I kept vigil, watching for improvement, hoping and expecting it. And I guess, in the eternal scheme of things, you did improve, just not the way I expected. Gramma's services were a year ago on Sunday (12/21) and yours were two years ago just over a week later (12/29). Somehow I wonder how I am still standing.

But in between, woven within the fabric of these dates, are Christmas celebrations, music, decorations. I remember the magic of Christmas as a child, and recognize that it was Mom. I wrap presents and recall working at the gift wrap booth in the mall with my friends. Dad helping organize the efforts and making sure that everyone working was actually capable of wrapping well. (We teens were the best, some of the adults didn't do as well.) 

I remember Christmas carols, and cinnamon roll Christmas trees, and chocolate before breakfast on Christmas morning and thinking the clock would never reach 6:00.  

Gramma loved Christmas, the lights, the stories, the celebrations. She loved the magic, Santa, and most of all, her Savior. She collected nativities, and so do I. The one she and Grampa made for my Grandma  sits on the piano and others are scattered through the house. 

I don't really think I felt much last year. It was my first without you (I still don't count 2023; you were here until 2 days before), but I was also wrapped up in losing Gramma. But this year, this year is different. I see the joy and the wonder on the grandchildren's faces, and I miss your quirky smile. I hear the carols, and I can almost hear my mom's voice as I sing. I am so grateful for Christmas, and it hurts so badly at the same time. 

I miss you, Aaron. It's starting to sink in that this is the way it's just going to be. Last year things were still pretty new. Not so much anymore. Your grave is decorated with a little tree, lights in your flowers, a wooden reindeer, and butterflies

I wish I was decorating your room instead. 

Love,
Mama

"Like snowflakes, my Christmas memories gather and dance —
each beautiful, unique, and gone too soon."

- Deborah Whipp