Dead Traditions

I tell myself and others it's my favorite time of year. Then the wind snaps; outside the colors fade. Pink blossomed leaves shed their coats. I watch them swirl away with blue feathers joining- lost forever in their dance. Just brown decay; emptiness left in their place. Darker each night gets. Colder. Time for artificial light. There is oil to prime and windows to close.

I tell myself and others it's my favorite time of year. Then the birds stop chirping. Feeders go untouched; even squirrels keep away. Less cars honk down the streets. No couples, holding hands while walking their dogs pass under my window. All the joyful laughter is gone- the children all inside. Time to burrow in heated blankets. There is binging to be had.

I tell myself and others it's my favorite time of year. Then the holidays begin. Decorations light up dim houses. Jovial carols play on repeat while grocery shopping. Social's show videos of excited families celebrating. They share their traditions- recipes for the sugar cookies. Cards arrive with groups smiling in matching outfits. Time for isolation. There is pain.

I tell myself and others it's my favorite time of year. Then the bulbs flicker a forewarning of a storm. A blizzard calling a relentless snow fall. White powder that avalanches lands on my house with a heavy thud. It covers- blocks the door along with trapping memories. Buries me like the coffins and urns they're in. Time to light the candle. There is shadow work to do.

I tell myself and others it's my favorite time of year. Then I uncross my fingers. Crimson, hand-poured with a wooden wick, dragon's blood candle sits on a black entryway table. It comes alive with the flick of the Bic- swaying, displaying different oranges, yellows, and reds. I sit on an ottoman next to it. Time to remember. There is a book to open.

I tell myself and others it's my favorite time of year. Then I turn the first page. Mom in the kitchen surrounded by her Pillsbury Doughboy decor. No apron. Chocolate on her shirt- she's making fudge. The spatula held like a microphone; she was caught mid-verse. "Rocking around the Christmas tree" I can recall her voice. Time to move on. There is dad.

I tell myself and others it's my favorite time of year. Then there he is, or really the back of him. He sits crosslegged in front of a large bunny-ear television. Santa is on screen, surrounded by floats, stopped on Herald Square. A crowd of buttoned up coats and warm caps obscure their faces. Time has erased cheers. There was a promise we'd go together.

I tell myself and others it's my favorite time of year. Then the next photos show my siblings, aunts, uncles, a plethora of cousins at a table playing dominoes. Remnants of anti-pasta, meatballs, and ziti discarded at our sides. The giving plate still full with uncle Al's inedible cookies. Nana's eyes twinkling. Time for decaf coffee. There would be eggnog too.

I tell myself and others it's my favorite time of year. Then there are presents under a tree. It's Christmas Eve; we could open one present. It's a succession of unwrapping until finally- predictable pajamas. That year mine were a blue velvet track suit. A crown on the front and "princess" written in cursive on the back. Time to settle. There was a movie.

I tell myself and others it's my favorite time of year. Then I turn on 'Its a Wonderful Life'. A film, that my dad loved, about a man named George. He had big dreams; planned and mapped. He was going to leave his small town to travel. Yet, nothing turned out how he expected. It has a happy ending. Time for the bell to ring. There is an angel who needs their wings.

I tell myself and others it's my favorite time of year. Then my in-laws call; my husband's father reads "Twas the Night Before Christmas", in a booming drawl. The nieces clap- I cry. My sisters send me videos of driving their kids to look at lights. I can hear the baby giggling faintly. Time for sleep. There are carrots to set out for the reindeer; milk for Santa.

I tell myself and others it's my favorite time of year. Then I remember I am a liar. I am alone. We have no children and my heart is out at sea. The closest loved one is dust in a jar sitting adjacent to the now dimming candle. Hundreds of miles of separation between me and the living. Time, thats what they say it takes. There is always next Christmas.