Christmas without Dad
THE other night I sat by the fire, Christmas banality blaring on the box, and wrapped this year’s presents.
I am a good present wrapper. My edges are neat and straight. I fold the sides with exacting precision.
I was taught this skill by my father, who in turn learnt it from his. My Grandfather ran a shop, back in the days when shops sold packages tied up with paper and string, and as a child Dad was sometimes drafted in to help on Saturday mornings. There he learnt the art of wrapping, of straight lines and sharp corners, of smoothing down the paper to rid it of bumps and creases, sealing the package up nice and tight.
The Cowing School of Wrapping we’d call it on Christmas mornings, as my poor mother broke nail after nail trying in vain to open our gifts.
I’m a bit more ahead with Christmas this year than usual, probably because I started thinking about it months ago. To be honest I was thinking about it in the taxi that night back in March, as I held my Mum’s hand and we left the hospital for the very last time.
As a family, we were always big on Christmas. Twinkly tree. Stockings with a tangerine in the toe. Champagne with the presents. Cognac with the pudding. And most importantly, time together. A chance to catch up, ideally with some decent booze and good food.
But this year, we are a man down. My Dad died nine months ago and like so many things we have faced since, Christmas without him seems inconceivable.
Because Christmas, more than any other day of the year, is inextricably bound up with memories. We all have our own. For me, the word alone is enough to transport me back to childhood, to the scent of fresh pine needles, the first notes of Once in Royal, the comforting rustle of wrapping paper.
No date in the calendar is more steeped in tradition and ritual, in the familiar grooves families create for themselves.
Perhaps that’s why the best Christmas traditions are the ones handed down. The dog-eared Christmas cake recipe, ancient stains marking the pages. The battered ornament strung faithfully from the tree each year by a faded piece of lametta. Christmas for me is clear, consistent and for the first time, painful.
I understand now why some people give up on Christmas when a loved one dies. The effort of being jolly and festive, of planning parties and social occasions, of lighting up the house when your heart is in the dark. Why put yourself through it?
Why go through the rituals, when the very person you established them with is no longer here? Why ignite all the old memories, when they bring you nothing but sadness?
And so this year, this first, hard year, I have decided that we will start with the little things. My partner will go to his family for Christmas and we will reunite at New Year. And instead of going to my parents’ house, something I have done every year since I left home at 17, my Mum will come to me.
There will be gin and tonic. Ham, not turkey. The Crown on Netflix and maybe His Dark Materials on the iPlayer. Avocado on toast instead of the traditional Christmas morning fry up. A new tree, shop bought and pretty.
There will be nods to the past. Champagne with the presents, crackers, perhaps a few carols. We bring the past with us, wherever we go. That means we can reinvent it too, when we need to.
I picked up another present and started to wrap it, smoothing and folding the paper as I was taught, all those years ago. Our little tradition, handed down, generation to generation.
In these edges, the straight lines and sharp corners, Christmas –steeped in ritual, consigned to memories I can’t yet face — remains.
And for this year, that’s enough.
This article was first published in the Scottish Daily Mail, 21 December 2019
