It has only occurred to me lately that I keep using dishes with holly on them all the time.
They are of course, my mother's dishes. In none of my three marriages did I insist on picking china patterns of my own. I integrated the hand me downs.
Christmas was the grand display that mom was the driving force behind. I never had holidays with fake trees. Scotch Pine was the preferred choice, a six footer if possible. Presents were wrapped in glorious paper and ribbon. Homemade ornaments on the tree that she made, didn't look homemade.
Style, class and joyful noises were the rule of the day, all day, all month.
As I draw further away from her death in 2010, I realize that I am addicted to certain keepsakes.
The dishes crept in to use when I started to make smaller meals. I eat by myself a few days a week, and that's plenty of space to catch my food. Maybe it s a dessert plate, I'm not sure. Now that I am steeped in creation of stories that feature the jolly old elf, so I realize that Christmas stays with me all the time.
I may put on shorts and bask in the sun at the park, but I come home to holly on my plate. That comforts me sometimes for all three or four meals. I am a late November baby so maybe I have an inner guide that latches on to winter as well. That first big holiday that ushered me into the pagan traditions of the culture I live in.
So, as much as I am holding onto an inner child, I am clinging to the plates. I am not going to therapy for that. I see that there's a little tap on my shoulder telling me that tears and grief can be replaced. Grief becomes visitations to objects, pictures and finally memories. You don't move through, you take along with you. And then there are the actions. Writing the stories inspired by her.
Just as she read stories at night to me, she ignited my writing spirit. The least I can do is
make my meals on her plates. She is with me at the table, every day.
