Two Years

Two years ago was the last Christmas with you. Two years ago. Why did it have to be on Christmas? Why? With my knees shaking, I slid to the floor of the hallway, trying to block out the noises from everyone down stairs. Maybe there had been a bit too much wine. Yeah, that’s it. That’s why all of the aunts and uncles are all so clearly audible from any location in the house.

My cousins? They were in the basement, testing out their new video games, texting their friends, and flat out enjoying themselves. I heard some shouts. Hooray—someone had just won a round of Wii Tennis.

I could not block out their sounds. They were experiencing today the way holidays are supposed to be, the most wonderful time of the year. With the 1940s woodwork and dirty carpeting surrounding me, I’m here in my solitude, remembering, and letting nostalgia engulf me.

It was two years ago.

Two years ago you were admitted to Hospice. Two years ago, on Christmas, we knew you had only a week. Two years ago, was the last Christmas we shared. It was two years ago, and I still remember.

But I should enjoy myself, right? I stood up and placed my trembling hand on the banister. I padded softly down the stairs and into the dining room. I weaved in and out of my relatives, and made my way to the back porch. Nighttime had set in, and I looked towards the heavens. Absentmindedly, my hand traveled to my neck, and grasped the small emerald hanging there.

I smiled up at the night sky, my hand still caressing the treasured stone around my neck. It was my memory of her, my treasure.

When someone you love becomes a memory, that memory becomes a treasure.