12.28.25
Christmas was a very tearful one this year. I knew it would be. Those dear folks I know who have lost their life partners themselves, told me so. They told me the “firsts” were the worst. First Thanksgiving, first Christmas, first birthday etcetera, etcetera. I thought I was prepared, but I was not.
The number of offers to spend Christmas or at least to share in a Christmas dinner were overwhelming and warmed my heart to no end, but I just wanted to be alone. Thankfully, they all understood this. I guess it helped that my milk cow, Lady, dropped her wee little calf on December 20th. Necessitating my staying close to home. I would be busy taking care of them and the other critters on the farm that get me up and going each morning. I would be okay.
Christmas Eve arrived and after my usual morning conversation with my dearest, very one sided of course, I swung my legs out of bed, got dressed and ready for the day. Coming into the kitchen to build a fire and get the kettle on I could feel the tears starting to fall, giving myself a scolding, I wiped them away. “We can do this, Matey,” I said as I touched his picture on the fridge door. “We can do this.”
The day passed quickly enough. It has been a tradition of mine since I was a young girl, to clean and scrub the house from top to bottom before the New Year arrives. This means taking down all the knick-knacks up high on shelves, dusting, washing and polishing Darrell’s collection of beer steins and our plethora of old glass bottles we have found over the years. It is a time-consuming job. Since it had not been done last year due to my dicky heart, I had not realized how grimy things had gotten! To see the end result of pottery and glass gleaming in the kitchen lights was rewarding. Then, the evening was upon us.
Christmas Eve was always a special time for us. The tree we had harvested a couple of days earlier would be sitting in the corner of the living room, waiting to be decorated. Taking down the boxes of special ornaments that reside high on a pantry shelf during the year, we would open them, and Darrell would unwarp and pass me the baubles to hang on the tree, each one holding a special meaning to us. When the tree stood adorned in all its glory, our presents would be piled underneath it. After some nibblies of cheese and meat and crackers and before opening our presents, Darrell would make himself a drink of Black Velvet and pour me a small crystal glass of Harvey’s Bristol Cream sherry. Together we would raise our glasses and toast each other with many wishes for a happy Christmas.
This year, I could not bring myself to harvest a tree. The boxes of ornaments remain on the high pantry shelf, and no presents were opened on Christmas Eve. As I sat alone in the living room, the tears came in floods. Finally pulling myself together, I got up and poured a wee shot of Black Velvet into Darrell’s favourite glass and myself a small sherry. While the soft sound of carols played in the background and the fire crackled in the stove, with Bonnie at my feet, I raised a glass and toasted my dearest.
Christmas Day, I felt a little better. I had taken a chicken out to thaw and was determined to have a Christmas dinner, albeit a chicken instead of our usual turkey. After chores were done and all the creatures were settled for the day, the wood boxes filled and mince pies made, I laid the table for dinner. I could not bring myself to only have one setting on the table so placed Darrell’s plate, knife and fork, serviette rolled in its pewter serviette ring, in his customary place.
Soon, the bird was ready, the potatoes, stuffing, carrots, Brussel sprouts and gravy ready to dish up. Making up my plate, a lump rose in my throat. Tears filled my eyes and as sobs shook my body, I knew I could not eat a thing. All I wanted to do was sit down on the kitchen floor and cry. Yet inside, something told me I needed to be strong. I needed to do this no matter how hard it was. Pulling myself together, I walked to the table and grabbed Darrell’s plate. I would not eat alone. Filling it with food, I placed it gently in front of where he would always sit. Suddenly, I felt able to eat, for you see, I knew I was not alone. After dinner as I cleared things away and tidied up, Bonnie dog enjoyed Darrell’s “leftovers”.
Later on, sitting in my easy chair with just the light of a single lamp and the flames flickering in the wood stove illuminating the living room, I sipped on a cup of tea as evening came. With the muted sound of classical Christmas music in the background competing with the gentle singing of the kettle on the hob, I felt at peace. The tears still came unbidden to my eyes, rolling down my cheeks as I stared into the fire, but I had made it through another first. I am so glad I filled that empty plate.
“Happy Christmas, Matey,” I whispered, “Happy Christmas.”
