This Hurts

Holidays are sneakily hard on me. I have a good family. A great one, even. Lots of love to go around from my immediate family to an extended one that extends and extends further with new spouses and children entering the fold.

I am a blessed guy.

And yet the holidays attack me from both sides: reminders of a past drifting further away and a future growing more realized.

Growing up in Pennsylvania, Thanksgiving and Christmas were glorious occasions. My family gathered regularly all year long, so these holiday gatherings were nothing new or “special” in that sense.

But those Thanksgiving meals felt like something out of a movie. The giant table, one person passing a plate to another passing it to another, passing plates from one giant table to another in the neighboring room.

Opening presents on Christmas felt like something out of Home Alone, presents on presents on presents, a shiny sparkly mountain in a room 50 square feet too small for all of us to fit, but fit we did, some roosting along the stairwell.

Such anticipation. Such spirits of togetherness.

Such magic.

Today, we still gather. But our gatherings have changed. Some of us have taken spouses, gained new families. Some live further away now. Some have passed.

It’s increasingly impossible we get the entire gang together for even one, let alone both holidays.

We’ve grown. Changed.

It’s not surprising. But it is deflating.

Don’t get me wrong, I laugh and smile and partake in the festivities every Thanksgiving and Christmas. I genuinely enjoy myself. The jokes, the stories, the reliving of memories. I don’t wear black clothes and eyeliner and drift from room to room with a stoic gait.

And yet the thought reverberates louder and louder as we pack away the food and settle in for bed:

“It’s just not the same.”

But it’s not just the past; the ghost of Thanksgiving and Christmas future also squelches my holiday spirit.

Scenes of tables and food and Christmas trees forever void of certain family members. My visage worn, less youthful. A growing sense of my mortality, this inevitability of death and division. No guarantee of a spouse or children surrounding me with less “odds” than the average person, let’s say (without diving into that right now; that’s what therapy is for).

November and December used to be grand celebrations, closing the curtain on this year while christening a new one.

Now, these two months feel like death knells. Bells tolling for lost magic and inevitability.

And the bells only grow louder with every passing year.

This isn’t right.

This isn’t how it was.

This isn’t how it’s supposed to be.

I’m in the the first holiday season of my life without my grandfather. Yet another one with family splitting time across multiple locations around the country.

And the splits will only increase. Year upon year.

The art of being present has never been more vital to learn. A time of gratitude for my loved ones, people sharing my blood and many others sharing this same Spirit I bear.

I’m a blessed guy. Indeed, I am.

And also this hurts.