One Dec 13th my father died, and as Mom and I sat by his hospital bed, holding on to him even as life let go, I became one of those people for whom Christmas would ever after call forth the mixed feelings of grief and joy.

When I was growing up, I remember that some few people seemed always unhappy at Christmas. It was a puzzling state of affairs to a child, but still, one that could be ignored like weepy aunts at family dinners or later, shaken off by excess of food and drink. Those people, however, became more noticeable as the years added their weight of experience, until that December morning when my mother and I joined their number.

I know that death happens midwinter as inexorably as midsummer, and a loss at any time of the year must ache as much as at Christmas as it will at birthdays or anniversaries; and yet, it is especially hard for all those who feel sad at this most joyous time of the year. They are expected to attend to the holiday and commercial rituals with a steady if not gushy happiness that reciprocates cards and gifts and hugs and kisses, each one a reminder of that embrace forever gone. 

Philosophy and history and all the mumblings of metaphysics are humbled by this awful fact of our existence – that it will end. The religious person may be consoled or the philosophical one find solace in their prayers or meditations, but death does not respond. In the space of that final silence, we have always tried to find meaning as a release from anguish and loneliness. 

For all of us, though,  who have wept friends or family away on that awful journey, there will come at last some Christmas evening after company has gone and the table has been cleared when we will notice that we have not dwelt on one who was not there, – has not been there for some years now – and we will let the memories come back. This is the gift the passing years will give us, and the long unwrapping of this gift never can be rushed. Our pseudo-medicines of drugs or busy work or other loves will not suffice, but time will always win out over tragedy and grief.

Small slights will fade, once sharp remarks will be reinterpreted, and petty, human flaws will disappear. What will be left in our selective memories will be the best of them – their plain intention to have made a difference, to have been a contribution to our lives, to life itself, in whatever way they could. Is that not our intent, our deepest, if unspoken, firm resolve? Then, let that be our resolution on this soon-to-be and every New Year’s Day. 

They have their last gifts yet to offer us,
These ones who left some Christmases ago,

The dearest time of year, the happiest;
Just as the wind more temperate turned
With promises of warmer times ahead,
They turned away, were turned, or torn away

By whatsoever ways the fates employ,
And always, always soon, too soon, too young 

Not yet fulfilled or contribution known,
Nor yet our love full-voiced, unstinting, shown.

Ah take soft tissue from the eyes and see,
From time compassionate and timeless love, 

Shortcomings dulled like old forgiven grief,

Best attributes beloved, in bright relief.