Celebrating Holidays Without My Mom and Spouse

The two-foot-tall Christmas tree had been missing for the past few years. My husband insisted it was in the house, but I couldn’t find it anywhere.

Last year, as I have done for the past decade, I strung all the twinkle lights around the living room and throughout the backyard. I taped our Happy Hanukkah banner to the entranceway. I hung the Christmas ornaments on a Ficus tree near the front door. And told my husband next year I would find that tree.

Next year has arrived. And I did find the tree, but my husband has since passed away as well as my mother.

This will be my first holiday season without both of them. And like all ‘firsts’, it conjures up a million past moments. I thought of leaving town. But I can’t leave my memories on the dresser next to my jewelry tray. Or in a box under that tiny tree. Wherever I go, it will still be my first holiday without my loved ones.

The gripping sadness that makes it hard to breathe, will accompany me whether listening to the waves crash onto the shore in Kauai, eating gelato in Italy or sipping wine in Paris.

After much thought I have decided to stay home and honor their memory, by continuing with our holiday traditions.

One of my favorite events is our annual latke frying party. Each year the women in our family gather in my kitchen. While chopping, blending and frying, we solve each other’s problems and a few of those plaguing our society. We toast each batch of sizzling latkes with our customary shots of tequila.

My husband loved our “hot off the pan” latkes. He would maneuver his wheelchair up to the kitchen table and join us with every toast. This year, I’ll be obligated to drink his shots, along with my own.

My mother would repeatedly ask how many latkes we were making. And proceed to count the latkes. Over and over and over.

Being that I am now the matriarch of the family, I suppose it’s up to me to take over the counting job. Although, since I still have my memory, I won’t have to count the latkes more than once. Or maybe twice. It can be a tricky task as eager fingers are always grabbing the hot ones off the platter.

I’ll cook the brisket, following my husband’s directions and try to cut the carrots into precisely one-inch pieces. Something I never conquered, or cared about, when he was alive.

In fact, I’m doing everything he had always wanted me to do before he passed away. I usually balked at his suggestions and ignored his constant advice, finding it annoying. My way was always better.