The Season that Stings

 

Since 2010,

The holidays sit heavy on my chest.

People pack bags, book flights,

Talk about going home.

And I smile soft,

Pretending that words don’t bruise me.

Home.

A place I haven’t touched

Since cancer stole my mother in August

And closed a door

I can’t reopen.

Every year since,

I move through December like smoke,

Thin, drifting,

Trying not to be seen.

I hang ornaments with hands that shake,

String lights that never feel bright enough,

And let Hallmark movies play

Like background noise

To a grief I still can’t mute.

I stir cocoa,

Wrap gifts,

Force laughter,

But there’s an emptiness

That no Christmas carol can soften.

See, deep down,

I’m not counting down to Christmas,

I’m counting down to escape,

Rushing toward January first

Like it’s a lifeline,

A breath,

A clean page,

Where my grief don’t feel so loud.

Since 2010,

The world calls it the most wonderful time of the year,

But for me,

It’s a reminder

Of all I can’t go back to,

All I can’t touch again,

All the love

That became memory

Too soon.

And still,

I rise each season,

Slow but steady,

Holding the ache

And honoring the woman

Who made every holiday whole.

This is my truth:

I’m unsettled,

I’m surviving,

And I’m still learning

How to live in a world

Where December comes without her.