A Memory

Last night, I turned on some Christmas tunes, made some wassail and broke out the Christmas gear. We set up the tree to Carol Carpenter. The sweet, spicy smell of wassail simmered on the stove steaming up my nose as I stirred it. The tears that ran down my checks took me back to earlier years. 

Nighttime crept around, and I’d climb up the stairs lured by the smell of the same Christmas drink on the Stovetop. Turning the corner to find big boxes set out on the dinning table, we all knew what was inside them. We’d dash to open them and I’d yell wait! I’d run to the TV cabinet and sort through the hundreds of CD cases, one by one looking for the right one. There it was, Carpenter’s Christmas. I’d pop it in and press play. The magical sound of Carol Carpenters voice rang through the house. Mom would once again tell us the tragic story of how Carol starved herself to death and then we would bust open the boxes. The tree went up and mom plugged it in, lights popping on. We’d each find our box with our own ornaments in them and then we’d carefully place each one on the tree, as if each single branch was destined to hold that exact ornament.

After the ornaments were gone we’d search for any hidden ones and then we’d bring out the bubble Santa. Who knows where mom had found him, most likely Pick-N-Save. No matter how old we got, we would always revert to our childish excitement as mom tied it in the perfect spot (of course with a towel under the tree so the bubbles wouldn’t hurt the wood floor) and we’d flip the switch on the back. The mechanical sound of Santa dipping his wand in his bag and lifting it to his lips where he blew a thread of glistening bubbles was purely magical.

Then, last but not least, mom would say, “there’s one more thing” and she’d disappear down the hallway and emerge back with a little blue box. She’d carefully open it up with us gazing impatiently for what we knew was inside. Gently she’d pull out the last touch to go on the tree, a beautiful crystal snowflake that we had picked out for her when we went to New York to visit Matt one year for Christmas. 

I had begged dad to stop at the Swarovski kiosk as we walked down the crowded street, window-shopping and looking at the magnificent displays for the holidays. Carol of the Bells played loud and thumped through my heart when my eyes fell on the beautiful crystal snowflake. I knew when I saw it that we had to get it for mom. She was not able to come with us to New York that year for some reason. My dad being such a pleaser as always, was not hard to convince. She was so surprised when we gave it to her.

Every year, she would bring it out with pride and we’d all help her find the perfect spot for it. It had to be at eye level and hanging in a hole with a light behind it so it would reflect off the crystal and make rainbows dance on the floor and walls. It had to be in the perfect spot so that when we’d walk down the hallway to the kitchen, it would gleam and catch our eyes. It was beautiful and I was so proud that I had picked it out for mom.

After setting up the tree, we’d go through all the other boxes of Christmas decorations and set them up around the house. All the nutcrackers that mom had collected throughout the years, the nativities that she cherished, the advent calendars, and all the other little knick-knacks that had their own special stories.

            We’d sip on wassail and sing to our favorite songs of the Carpenters all night while making our home into a magical wonderland that we would enjoy for the next month until Christmas arrived.

            Last night as I put up my own decorations, sipping on the taste from my past, listening to the music that once rang joy through my ears, I cried. I cried for my mom, for my past, for all the happiness that once filled our lives. I longed for the one true time each year that despite our differences my mom and I were close and we bonded over our magical tradition. It was bittersweet, like the drink in my hands.