LJ Idol Season 7, Week 6 - Not Of Your World.
To borrow a phrase from a book title, mine is a Decembered grief.
My mother died on December 1st.
She was buried on December 6th, which has been my traditional "start date" for Christmas planning and celebration for most of my adult life, stemming from a childhood custom and adapted in my own eclectic way. My mother had lots of Christmas traditions I've wanted to make mine.
This year I didn't put out the shoes, filled with carrots for Saint Nicholas' donkey, on the windowsill, and thus did not make a big show of "sneakily" eating the carrots so that I could fill the shoes back up with candy for my partner, to make him laugh.
I haven't actually been able to do the Saint Nicholas thing for several years now, because Life has been just a tad too sober for a long, long while, and the carrot-eating / candy switch would make my partner cry, rather than laugh.
But oh, how I wanted to, this year. I wanted this year to be different, because I had hope this year, a bit of light and anticipation. I wanted to turn that light and hope and anticipation into Christmas joy for others, not just me.
And then my mother became ill in late October, just after my birthday, and then she died.
And I walk around in a fog while others are doing their decorating and their holiday shopping and their planning for gatherings and get-togethers.
I go to work at the bookstore I now own, the bookstore my mother did not get to see [although she did get to see my previous place of employment], because I'm a professional and responsible. The comfort in my own skin I had once felt there now feels alien to me.
I sell happiness to others, in the form of a novel they've been waiting to read, or a handful of audio dramas on CDS that will transport them to distant planets in their mind's eye, or a toy that will intone "EXTERMINATE!" under the Christmas tree. I feel isolated from their happiness... not envious, merely detached.
I dress the way my mother would like to see me dress, in what she'd call "librarian mufti"... decorative turtlenecks, bright scarves, a cheerful cardigan with shiny buttons over pressed slacks or a denim skirt, socks and trim Oxford shoes, my hair neatly braided back. I look in the mirror and feel more like a stranger in a strange land than I usually do. I wonder whether she'd approve, if she's observing me from some realm beyond this one.
I play holiday music to set the mood for customers, and find myself not even processing what I'm hearing.
I do not know when or if I will feel a part of Christmas ever again, because my mother and Christmas will now be irrevocably linked. I fear I am condemned to walk apart from those who celebrate.