Much like my mother, I love to write.
And for a few years now, she's been sending me her stories in the mail. The one below is the first I ever received.
Now, here's her story:
And for a few years now, she's been sending me her stories in the mail. The one below is the first I ever received.
If you have a few minutes, read my mother's holiday story, "My Favorite Day of the Year." It made me cry!
Oh, and did I tell you she's not sick, my mother? She was thankfully diagnosed last week with a treatable condition called Diverticulitis.
Can you say, joy to the world? What a relief!
Oh, and did I tell you she's not sick, my mother? She was thankfully diagnosed last week with a treatable condition called Diverticulitis.
Can you say, joy to the world? What a relief!
Now, here's her story:
“My Favorite Day of the Year”
Another long and humid summer is now lost into the faded background of time, and what was once an exquisite blue shaded canopy is now occupied with an assortment of puffy licorice clouds that adorn the sky above. The colorful leaves of autumn have fallen from their mother branches, icing the ground with a kaleidoscope of brilliant shades of red, orange, and yellow, and leaving behind the darkened shadows of stick trees, and the death of yet another season. The echoes of neighborhood children roll triumphantly down the street, playing melody to my ears, while the circular piles of leaves await burial in big black bags. The determined November wind blows swiftly, howling a tune of death, and bringing with her the chill of December. My bones are now cold and shivering uncontrollably, I must rely on the warmth of my wool sweater to aid me, and with each exhale of breath, white clouds of froth come billowing forth, leaving crystals of ice upon my lips. “Oh the excitement that stirs within me,” bringing me closer to Christmas, my favorite day of the year.
College finals are lingering, the stress is mounting, my patience is dramatically shortened, and my nerves are shot, but in spite of all this overwhelming pressure, the spirit of Christmas is blooming gloriously within me, spawning the birth of excitement. The inviting scents of Christmas time surround my widened nostrils. “Yummy!” The aroma of warm apple cinnamon strudels and hot peppermint cocoa dances and swirls around gently in the air, leaving a tease of delight upon my tongue. Cling-Clang goes the bell, as the Salvation Army Santa Claus stands guardian to the doors, my hand reaches out with kindness as I hurry into the warm air inside. There are sales galore, and gifts to be carefully chosen. My mind is hit with consecutive waves of thoughts and ideas of how to make this Christmas more special than the year before. With so many things to do and prepare for, I can hardly wait to get started. “Yippee-Yahoo, I am counting down to Christmas day, my favorite day of the year.”
Most days of the year are ordinary and uneventful. Days tick away with the hand of a wall clock. School, studying, routine, and schedule play monotonous host to my time. Life passes quickly by, and the memories fall neatly into an organized stack where they lay motionless and gather dust until a time of recollection. However, “Christmas is a special day.” This is the one day a year when all four of my beautiful children scurry from all directions to gather around me to share the love of the newborn season. My halls are decked with Christmas cheer, my financial ship has sunk, the tree stands tall in liberty and all its glory, and the star above twinkles. The presents are wrapped with special care, shining colorful curly ribbons and perfect little bows, who are awaiting the hands of my children, who will have no mercy for their beauty.
At long last my favorite day is here. One by one my children greet me with a tender hug and joyful smile, my tears of love roll softly and quietly down my face, menopause has bitten. Nostalgia fills the air, leaving no room for intruders. They are eager to reminisce and tell their stories of the year past. “My children are so beautiful to me,” each one different and yet they are all the same, “angels,” little pieces of heaven fallen perfectly from above. Their innocence and eagerness for life intoxicates me. I stand amidst them, gazing into their chestnut eyes. There is a bond of love between us that will forever be unbroken. “My Darlings,” I say as my tone gains altitude. “Today we are blessed. We have all made it safely to another Christmas, and have been given this time to be together again. I confess to you all, I am guilty of loving each one of you. I cannot explain the size of my love, not in cups, quarts or liters, but each night when I lay my head upon my pillow, my prayers and love for you is exactly the same. A wish for happiness, love, and prosperity is guided toward you. Life is short, and at its best, is very difficult, and if for reasons unknown I should not make it safely to our next gathering, look back to this Christmas, and there you will see the size of your mother’s love, and how special you are to me.”
Two weeks have passed since Christmas. My house is haunted with the songs of my children’s voices and laughter. Happiness, comfort, and peace embrace me, as I hold closely my new Christmas memory. I walk briskly across the frozen brown grass, ever so steady, onward to my mail box. Tucked neatly inside is a small gray envelope with the words “I love you mom,” written boldly across the bottom. I saw not another step, and it was as if a string had lifted both ends of my lips, I was swept away in thought and smile, back to Christmas, my favorite day of the year.”
. And, I'm not exaggerating on Patrick's behalf, either! Saint, that is.
films. For your viewing pleasure, they are:
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