Christmas Solstice

(Solstice from the Latin word sistere - to stand still)

Quiet house, full house.
Sun greets Morning,
asking Night to extend a hand.

Lights flicker at the neighbor’s,
Santa having already arrived.
He won’t show
–across the street –
for hours or more.
He will have time to stop
scratch his belly, and the dog’s.
He won’t need Rudolph
when he sets down his sleigh
nor candles in the window.

The dog paces
waiting, wondering.
The coffee has grown tepid,
the children have grown up.
But in their waking sleep
they generate energy enough
to stumble from bed and upon belief -
the magic emerges with the sun.

12/25/2011
AJW

My Mother's Christmas Gift

Two months ago, my parents moved to an independent living care community nearby. They live independently only because my father’s mind is intact, if not his ability to sign Christmas cards. A caregiver attends to Mom’s needs once a week to give Dad respite, and encourage Mom to participate in activities around the community.

The monthly calendars published by the Lodge Community boasts all sorts of field trips – Cracker Barrel and Movie, the Mighty Wurlitzer at Music Hall, Sharon Woods in Lights. Many of these my father takes advantage of. Mom’s outings are limited in scope because of her attention span, and her “sundowning”. At dusk, she becomes anxious and wants to return home.

Within the community, there are activities for Arts and Crafts, Let’s Have Fun, Chair Volleyball, and Communion and Rosary. But there is also the Choraliers. A musically-inclined piano player, Alice, comes to the Lodge, and directs residents who choose to participate in choral practice once a week. Then, the group performs for various audiences in-house, families, and last week, traveled to another senior center.

At my urging, Mom “decided” to join the choir. The caregiver, Elizabeth, accompanied Mom to the first practice. No one had any idea how long Mom might sit. But Elizabeth was getting paid by the hour, so it was no matter to her.

For a few weeks, Mom attended practice with Elizabeth. Even Dad took Mom one week, and was forced to sing along.

The week before the Choralier’s performance in front of their peers, Mom was visiting at my house, rolling meatballs at my side. “What are these for,” she kept asking. “Wedding soup.” I replied, assuming she recognized the season of Christmas was always accompanied by Italian Wedding Soup. “Yeah, but whose wedding?” she pestered. “No one.” “Then why are we making these?” “Mom, it’s Christmas.”

Though Mom had just been singing carols, the concept of “the most wonderful time of year” was lost. We switched the music over to Frank Sinatra, and she whiled away the rest of the rolling with Frank’s music on her lips. When she walked away to look out the front door, a common chore of hers, Mom stopped mid-step and said, “You know, I always loved to sing. Ever since I was little.”

I agreed heartily with her, recalling her days dragging us to Midnight Mass so she could sing in the church choir, and too, she was part of the Resurrection Choir, which sang at all the funeral masses. Her voice, though not booming, was always perfect pitch, and devout.

“I wish I would have learned how to sing when I was little,” Mom reiterated.

I looked up puzzled. “What do you mean?”

“I wanted to know how to sing.”

“Oh, like taking lessons?”

“Well, yes, something like that.” She beamed knowing I understood.

Mom moseyed off into the family room, to perform her other task at my home, closing the plantation shutters.

Monday of Mom’s performance arrived. I met up with Mom and Elizabeth, strolling through the lobby on their way to be seated for the show. Mom kept motioning for me to sit by her, in the choir’s chairs. I repeatedly signaled that I would sit in the audience. I took a seat near the front, but didn’t want to be distracting.

Like a young girl who spots her parents while singing in her first concert, Mom frequently waved to me from the back row. I would give a wave, we would lock eyes, and then sing in unison, “I’m dreaming of a White Christmas, just like the ones I used to know.”

On occasion, I had to look away from Mom, because I was in tears, reflecting on the years of Christmas past, her beautifully-decorated home, her perfectly round meatballs, and crisply pressed pizzelles. But Mom didn’t miss a note, singing happily - no, joyfully.

When I was five, my mother had bought me a Mrs. Beasley doll for Christmas. In high school, Mom gave me purple corduroy jeans as a Christmas gift. Over the years, her selections were conscious choices gleaned from scribbled lists, dog-eared pages of the Sears catalog, or a whisper from a sister.

Mom could not have known, that at age 84, the best gift she could have presented to me was her voice.

12/19/2011

Goodbyes Part I & II

I.

I am miles from home driving past whirligigs for sale

and berries baked in pies sold off Amish buggies.

A hundred trips have led me past signs

offering farm raised perch and kittens raised by hand.

In a few weeks or maybe months,

Mom and Dad will sell the thirty-year-old home.

I am afraid that no family home means no family.

Memories of our youth will no longer rock

our own children to sleep, the ghosts of our teens

will not keep them awake.

The pool table will have been sold despite parties it once held.

Wide mouthed canning jars will no longer

capture the juiciness of the summer.

And zucchini, fixed 1001 ways, will become a relic of the past.

A picture of Mom and Dad, squinting into the Sunday sun

as they stand on the cracked drive of 724 Lincoln Street,

will be all that is preserved.

Dad’s too wide blue tie stands out against his

white shirt with short sleeves - the style he wore

every day to the shoe store.

Mom still sports white pants - always black or white –

only now a few sizes less.

This day, my baby sister and oldest sister with her baby

march out from the garage to join and wave

as I reverse my course.

It is still tradition

that whoever is home leaves the Sunday paper,

the Saturday cartoons, the Monday morning wash,

to take up their role outside the garage

and stand side by side as the committee of goodbyes.

AJW 7/9/2007

II.

Today, as I bathe Mom, she is open to my bossiness,

only if Frank Sinatra flies with us, or Crosby croons

a white Christmas into existence in her very bathroom.

She even declares her legs need more lotion.

Dad tells me they did not attend Mass

for the Feast of the Immaculate Conception,

He also confesses to not taking Mom to choir practice.

After lunch in a noisy café, we hang

stockings embroidered with letters on the rocking chair.

Mom repeats names, “E for Ettore, J for Jean.”

Alright, I say, gathering my keys. You take care of each other.

Mom takes Dad in her arms, hugs him too tight.

“Oh we will. We take care of each other.”

Alright, I mutter again, trying to leave.

Mom cuts ahead, opens the door,

a chore she daily performs, expecting a guest who never comes.

She keeps it ajar while I walk out.

When I turn, Mom is standing in the hallway.

Dad is leaning through the open space.

The scene is reminiscent of goodbyes once hailed

from the garage of their family home.

Only now, they are piercing the blandness of a fourth floor hall,

waving wildly, wishing me buon viaggio

in my travels outside of their world.

12/8/11

AJW