O Christmas Tree

Christmas tree image from billpetro.com.

The Christmas tree's fragrant boughs are weighed down with memories. My Dad and I went every Christmas Eve--usually to the lot outside Two Guys in Hackensack--to get a bargain on a spindly fresh tree. He and my brother Will would fuss and stress over getting it straight in the stand, front and center by the picture window.

Among our ornament stash: a box of six special ornaments from a fancy store. Mom, Dad, and each of us four kids got to hang one. The idea was to find a great spot on the tree for the one you chose. The globes were big and fragile and painted with beautiful images--a poinsettia, a fir tree. One was pink with sparkly accents.

I love sleeping beside a Christmas tree. I've done it at H.'s brother's house in Maine and on the sofa bed we used to have in our house here. I love just staring at the lights, the ornaments, the colors--and especially, the silver and gold glitter dust on some special keepsakes, dancing merrily in the soft electric glow.

But I no longer look at a Christmas tree without thinking of my mother, and the Christmas before she died. She lived five months past that, until cancer stole her once and for all in May 1981.

I came upon her sitting by herself in the dark on the sunken love seat in our living room, just gazing at the tree. My mother and I did not have deep talks, and that night was no exception. I think I asked what she was doing, and she said something revealing like looking at the tree.


I wish now that she could have spoken to us about her fears, about the jagged fate of getting cancer in her young 50s, leaving her husband, four kids and her parents [her Dad ended up dying three months before her]. She must have been terrified. She must have felt sick. She must have been in pain. She must have been angry, bitter. She must have hated losing her hair and wearing a wig. She must have wondered Why, why me? I wish I could have given her the gift of listening, of a place to put her thoughts. I know it would have been hard for both of us, but still, I wish I and we had been able to give her that gift. I know we both would have cried a lot, and again, that is something we did not generally do together. My mother was of Irish stock--reticent, reserved in certain ways. No overflowing emotions. One of the only times she told me she was proud of me was on a note she left me on the green kitchen table on the night of my high school graduation.

But Dad was determined that she would pull through. They're trying this procedure, they're trying that. It must have been so difficult for her. She must have wanted to talk, to be vulnerable. Or did she?

All I know is that when I sink into my couch, alone, and look at the Christmas tree, I am transported back to that December night and the memory of my mother--quiet, contemplative.

Even without the words, I knew what she was thinking.

I say to you now, Mom, I'm so sorry for all you endured. I honor your memory. I remember your smile. I embrace your traditions. I'm so sorry for your pain. Anne Mary Mahon/Anne Garbarini/Mom--you are in my heart, and I am glad.

Good night.