I hate holidays. I didn’t used to. Used to love them simply because it meant the family getting together. But the family doesn’t get together anymore, though we all say we want to. A few of my sisters, and at least one niece, are clinging to the idea that we must have family gatherings at my parents’ house; at my parents empty house. A few more of my sisters, and me, very much me, feel too much sadness to go to the empty house. Until the house is filled with a family, we would like to gather somewhere else. This has resulted in dueling family gatherings, requiring folks to choose. This completely stinks.
I love this house that my dad built for his sweetheart. I cherish the memories, even the memory of sitting with my Mom when she came home to die. It will always be my mother’s house, will always represent my parents' love. Even if I never go there again.
|Somehow, this image of the tree down outside the house fits my mood. Things end.|