My mother died the Sunday after Thanksgiving. My sister, in the first week of December. So year after year, as the holidays approach, my insides simultaneously rise with my love of the holidays—lights in the dark time, decorations in rich reds and greens, quiet renewal with loved ones at home—and sink with the daily reminders that my anticipation was formed in a time when my family was whole. I have the Christmas stocking that a great aunt knitted for my sister (though I’ve lost my own some time over the years and moves), and I remember our mother filling our stockings when we were kids, the four of us, with oranges and candy and jewelry and small toys.
Many of you, too, will be missing loved ones more sharply right now. Thanksgiving tends to be a very family-first holiday, with recipes handed down from grandparents (or great-grandparents) and different versions of cranberry sauce (fresh orange-cranberry for me; out of a can for some) and that one person who insists on pumpkin pie even though he’s the only one who really likes it. My mother used to have my brother and me polishing silver for days leading up to the feast; she believed in actually using the sterling silverware and water goblets and gravy boats she either inherited or was given for her wedding in the 1950s. My sister did much of the cooking, though at a certain age I took over the corn casserole (a recipe from my father’s Pennsylvania Dutch family). My brothers and I did cleanup, which always felt like a Sisyphean effort, filled as we were with too much food.
I used to turn away when grief stabbed me, when my nieces and nephews laughed over a silly board game at Thanksgiving and I could almost hear my sister’s giggle, feel the love she spread over our brothers’ kids like a blanket. I swallowed the hardness in my throat, forcing my tears down into my stomach, and then found myself watching the action as though from a video camera miles away, disconnected. My body might sit at the table, go through the motions of enjoyment, but I was actually wandering in grief-land, dark mists swirling around my feet.
My sister was the person in the family who shared knowing looks with me, who listened when I pulled her into a corner to make some observation or confess some complicated emotion, who asked me outright how I was feeling and what I was thinking. Now the ship of my heart runs aground without her—we navigated for each other, standing in the bow and calling out directions. Now I have to wait for the right moment to ask my sister-in-law how she’s doing after the loss of her sister, or text my best friend from the bathroom. Now I have to work hard to tie myself to the fabric of the here-and-now.
But one thing I have learned: that work is worth the effort, and swallowing my grief only keeps me disconnected. This year, I want to let my mother and sister live inside me—after all, they shaped me, advised me, loved me into being (to use Mr. Rogers’ beautiful phrase). They are a part of me, and instead of feeling an inadequate substitute for them, I want to share the parts of me that are them.
I grew up with the old WASP story about the death of a loved one: just move on, because that person is forever lost. It’s hard for me to revise that story, but I’m trying. The story that rings truer to me is a story in which my mother and sister speak when I speak, laugh when I laugh, hug when I hug. They are not lost because I know what they would say and do, and I remember what they said and did. They are still at the bow of the boat, calling out where the true channel runs. I just have to remember to listen.
I didn't know your sister, but I do remember meeting her at Dunderbak's and her being kind and friendly to me, which I appreciated because I'd been feeling a little uncomfortable at the table and having a kind person to chat with eased my anxiety. What a lovely way to conceive of her and your mother — not as people who are gone entirely, but who are alive through you and your actions. I will keep that concept in mind moving forward. :) Wishing you a happy Thanksgiving.