“A time for Christmas. For Light has come into this world. That is our journey…”
My father was a resilient person. He’d weathered much. Worked hard.
Lived much. He was my hero. I thought he’d
always be there. In a way he always has. His never left me.
December 1967 my mother brought him home . For the last time. For
the best Christmas ever.
I was only seven, but I remember her chopping wood, late into
the night, so the fire would burn long on the hearth. The days were damp and soggy.
Cold and unforgiving. And she brought him home for Christmas. It was a
wonderful time. Though, to some, it may not have been. But to us, it was.
Christmas Day the stereo played his favourite carols. He sat in
the great chair, trying to sing, but the words would not come. But he felt
them.
We didn’t have a lot of money. Lived on the small paycheck my
mother made by being a seamstress. Nevertheless,
she made sure there was Christmas dinner with all the trimmings. I can still smell the pungent scent of sage stuffing
wafting through the house. She’d had her hair styled in a huge blonde beehive
that stretched into infinity.
My father’s chair was set close to the fire, so he could enjoy
the warmth. His eyes watched the flames lick at the dry wood, as we listened to
it snap and crackle, like rice Krispies cereal.
My mother spent a huge portion of her earnings on a beautiful
dressing gown. She wanted my father to have the best gift ever. Maroon satin,
with velvet collar, velvet tie and fabric stitched through with brown velvet
lines. He looked like a fancy prize fighter. That’s what my mother said.
She was genuinely happy. She said it was Christmas, no matter
what. It would always be Christmas. As it should always be.
I liked to run my hands over the soft collar of his Christmas
dressing gown. He would try to smile and hum to the carols. I told him it was okay. I would sing them for him.
He wiggled his finger at me, which was
our way of communicating. I’d wiggle my finger back at him and giggle. My
mother took photos of us that day. Four of them. Ones I keep in a special place.
Our cat lay on the
hearth getting toasty warm, as my Mother rattled about in the kitchen. The cat
purred. My father dozed, as I sat with him. It was in the quiet that we seemed to best understand each other.
My father
didn’t really eat much of dinner. We sat
by the fire. My mother had set the table with all of her best antique chine. The
china I use, to this day, when friends come over. But he decided to stay in the big chair , so we brought
plates over from the table to sit with him. I
caught him looking at my mother. And she
at him. Their eyes locked in some silent thought. Something meant just for the
two of them.My mother cleaned up the dishes. The carols played, and the
cat purred, and the fire flapped in the darkened room, as night fell.
We must have stayed in the Christmas quiet till the fire
burned low. It was the best Christmas ever. I know that sounds strange. But it
was.
My father was my hero.
He showed me how to be strong. He died
three months later. March 26 1968. My mother , strong willed as he was, passed
away exactly twenty years later, on
March 26, 1988.
It was exactly how they had dreamt of it, I imagined. I found his
Christmas dressing gown in the closet , when I cleared out the house. I ran my
hands over the velvet lapels. Just for a moment. To remember. He had
only worn it that one time.
He taught me about
finding great joy. My prize fighter.
“While the morning stars sang together and all the angels
shouted for Joy..” -Job 8:7Photographs 2023
2024 Photographs
