Glad the Holidays Are Over

This Year - But Next Year

Photo by Mark Zamora on Unsplash

It’s New Year's Eve; I’m sitting at the table by myself - well, Bailey, the black cat, is peeking over the edge, hoping for a nibble. I’m having fajitas for dinner and reading a book. The television is showing the celebrations worldwide. Sitting there, I realize how relieved I am that the holidays are over.

We had a lovely family dinner on December 24th, exchanged gifts, and made cookies - but my heart never made it to the party.

For years, I looked forward to the holidays with great anticipation and preparation. If you ask me why not this year, I could give you several reasons.

• Family members were missing. My younger grandson and his wife now live in New York. My son and his family now live in Salt Lake. Others were recovering from COVID.

• There was no Dan. December 25th was his birthday, so we always went out to dinner - we were together.

• There were many couples; I was single. My special person was not there to share the day with - to sit next to and hold hands.

• Holidays are not the same today - at least for me. Now, it’s about buying and sales, starting in October. We don’t shop for gifts or send cards - we give gift cards, order online, and send emails. The music is no longer the songs I cherished.

You can say, “You’re just feeling sorry for yourself.” True. You can say, “Look at what you have - be glad you don’t live in Israel, Gaza, or Ukraine.” That’s also true. But those truths reside with sadness.

A better question is: “What can I do differently next year?”

I don’t know yet, but these ideas come to mind.

1. Accept this is 2024 - times have changed; let go of the past, appreciate the season, and enjoy what is.

2. Focus on the positive and the kindnesses in the world - and there were many.

3. Create new traditions. I’m not sure what that means - maybe having a holiday party at my house, volunteering at a soup kitchen, or taking a little trip.

Life offers coincidences - sometimes. After writing the article, Three Years A Widow, and this one in which I mentioned missing Dan at Christmas, I got an email from a friend - thank you, Sharron - which included a poem written by someone she knew. The woman wrote it while her husband was out of town for a few weeks. The poem touched me in so many ways because it described how life changed as I moved into widowhood. I have her permission to share it with you - thank you, Linda.

YOU ARE NOT HERE by Linda C. Brown ©2024

I get up and make the bed that you have not shared with me the night before. I lay out one coffee mug and set out one cereal bowl on the counter.
At lunch and dinner, there is only one place setting. 
And there is only one towel hanging on the bathroom peg because... you are not here.
Today, I took a walk with someone else.
Yesterday, I played Scrabble with a friend.
On Sunday, I sat in church and clasped my own hands during the prayers when I am so used to holding yours because ... you are not here.
I watch news clips and have no one to exclaim about how crazy the politicians are getting.
I watch late-night comedians, but they are not as funny without you here to laugh with me.
I learned how to use the two remotes while watching TV when that had been your duty.
Lots of thoughts course through my mind, but I have no one to tell them to because you are not here.
I have to remember to check the mail.
I have to remember to lock up the gate at night and to bolt the extra latch on the door.
I have to remember my house and car keys whenever I leave home.
I have to remember to check the level of the gas gauge in the car and then get it filled because you are not here.
I work on a crossword or jigsaw puzzle without your taking turns to finish a section that I can't figure out.
I take out the trash on Mondays and vacuum the house on Saturdays - both had been your chores.
The backyard gardening was yours to tend to, but now I need to care about it as much as my front yard flowers.
When I fold and place clean laundry in the basket, they're all on my side; where are yours, I ask?
And then I realize that all the laundry is mine because you are not here.
I must be mindful of the bugs, rodents, and gophers around our property and seek advice from others.
I must be mindful of what I do physically so I don't fall or get hurt since I am alone with no one to call for help.
I must be mindful of loud talking or banging noises outside to check that our neighborhood is okay because you are not here.
At night in bed, I cuddle against the decorated pillows I pile on your side, and it feels like you are there.
The next morning I get up and make the bed that you have not shared with me the night before.
So I lay out one coffee mug and set out one cereal bowl on the counter.
.... And another day has begun
.... And you are not here
.... And I miss you so very, very much. 

All the changes you might not have thought of.

P.S. Thanks for reading Aging Well News! If you know someone who might like this article, please forward it or share it below. 

If you want to contribute to my work, consider donating to the Alzheimer's Association. This link takes you to their website. The choice is yours.