An Imperfect 10.

One of my favorite ornaments sits atop my tree - it’s a picture of my Ma and Dad, on the last Christmas she was here. 

Isn’t that the bitch of life? Never really, really knowing when the last of things will be? The last “I love you,” the last hug, the last words said in anger, the last laughs, the last birthday candles, the last time friends or family get together before one is taken from this earth.

I’ve stared at that ornament now for ten Christmas seasons. Ten. This is the tenth Christmas I will spend without my Ma. You'd think it would get easier by now; it hasn't. It just got different. I. Am. Different. Everyone around me is different. And with that (in)difference, each Christmas gets a little more imperfect than the last. 

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My Ma was the BEST, most thoughtful gift-giver on the planet. Not that Christmas is about getting the gifts, but well, you know. So many Christmas mornings were spent unwrapping things that I had mentioned I had liked, maybe one time, in April of that particular year. And. She. Remembered. I know now it's not the gifts I miss - I miss being heard; I miss being understood without having to explain myself. I miss being a consideration. I just miss her and the way things used to be.

Sometimes, though, she would give you the most practical, yet ridiculous gifts: like the headlight, for example, she gifted to Jim on one of his first Christmases with us. He was like, "Ok thanks" in more of a questiony tone. But alas, that damn headlamp came in handy more times than you could even imagine. Or how about the time she gave me the head scratcher - which was purely ridiculous but helpful when I had a migraine. Or the dream violin that I thought I was playing but instead hit the "demo" button. Or even the time she wrapped up 3 of the same cardigans because that is really how she shopped. I could go on but I think you get the picture. 

There was never a Christmas that went by that once all the gifts were unwrapped, Ma would turn to one of us and say, "Hmmmm... did you open...? Uh, hang on," followed by a quick trip to the depths of her closet to find the missing item, met with laughs from all of us. 

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My kids are getting older but still believe in the magic of Christmas. Watching their eyes light up on Christmas morning as they open gifts that they pointed out to me 8 months before the 25th of December makes my heart smile and reminds me that I learned from the best. The. Absolute. Best. 

And as indifferent as I have become to some aspects of this life I cannot change, the Imperfect 10th Christmas without The Best will have some smiles, some tears, and definitely some laughs (but definitely no headlamps).