i really should expect it by now, but each and every year it takes me by surprise as i unwrap the little trumpeting angels carved with love and hung upon ribbons of scarlet and place them on the tree
one for each of my family, our names scrawled on the bottom in my father’s own hand.
[and in that moment grief arrives with her bittersweet bands and wraps them around my chest as i remember him.]
and am reminded how i took them to calcutta and purchased a tiny tree simply for them because we had no extra space when our youngest was only seven
and i remember his giggles and grins and how he would climb onto laps often
my littlest one who’s still here but is grown and understandably is not to be cuddled often.
[and in that moment grief arrives with her bittersweet bands and wraps them around my chest as i remember him.]
then i think of my other babes too, grown up and off on their own, three more sets of eager, small hands that would decorate the tree
adoring who they currently are, but missing what used to be.
[and in that moment grief arrives with her bittersweet bands and wraps them around my chest as i remember them.]
and i breathe and reflect, isn't it marvellous to have precious ones to miss. memories stored up to treasure, nostalgic in times like these?
and i would never trade the ache right now for love to have never been....
then while the bands of both bitter and sweet flex and stretch on repeat, i plug in the cable to light up the tree
and the angels carved by my father’s loving hands catch the light once again.
Heather Pound 