I wake heavy, slow. I pull on a long skirt and grab the men’s flannel I picked up at the second hand store.
I check the fire. I light candles. I put on the Christmas music. I consider my to do list. (I’d been looking forward to tackling it.)
I fill a bowl of kitchari. I sit on the couch. I open the computer. I read.
I google: Christmas Date with Mom; and then add: Kelly Salasin.
I find my post from 2009. I critique my writing. I begin editing. Tears fill my eyes. I close the computer. I finish chewing. I sob.
I hold my heart. I say, Ow, ow, ow.(I worry someone might hear me.)
I read more of my Christmas writing from years past. I feel soothed. And tired.
I realize that I always write in the days leading up to the holiday.
I take a shower.
I chide my mother for being born on Christmas Day. For dying on my husband’s birthday.
I thank her for creating such strong portals of consciousness.
I decide that I won’t get anything done today. From here on, December 23 will be my Christmas Grieving Day.
I make a mental note to tell my children that I’m sorry for the grief my death will cause them one day. Especially on the holidays. I’ll tell them to feel it and move on.
I decide that I want to be wished a Happy Christmas Grieving Day.
I want all of us to celebrate it. Each grieving what grieves us. With full permission, expectation and RELEASE.
(Next year’s phone hotline: Happy Christmas Eve eve. What grieves you?)