Page 2 of Milked for the Holidays

Pulling into the garage, I watch as the snow swirls even harder. I grip my jacket tighter, that old sense of mirth rising back to the surface. Our favorite Christmas memories were when it was snowing.

Giddy for the first time in a while, I argue with the trunk, no longer caring that it sticks. I’m home now, so it can break down for all I care. Making several trips, I bring all my goodies into the living room before heading back to the large freezer to find my meal.

Since the funeral, people from all over have given me casseroles and desserts, enough to keep me fed without having to spend that much extra money. I’m beyond grateful, but none of what they made appeals to me right now.

Sliding my gaze over to a small section off to the side, I run my fingers over the foil covering Mom’s last dish. The very last bit of food she had made before she was too weak to move. Granted, after six months, it will probably not taste nearly as good, but right now, all I want is one last taste of her lasagna.

I make quick work of the oven, getting everything set up so it can heat while I decorate. There’s no shortage of holiday movies I can put on in the background, but it’s not as if I’m really watching, anyway. I’m far too consumed with placing the delicate baubles on the tree.

As I sift through the memories, I second-guess myself for a moment. Maybe it’s all too soon? More tears gather as I pluck out a special ornament, the one Mom and I made together when I was five.

Turning the ceramic piece over in my hands, I run my thumb over the faded signatures and date. Her handwriting was always so dainty, whereas mine looks every bit like a kid wrote it. Not that it got much better as I grew up.

I wipe at my eyes, detesting how the tears blur my vision. Eventually, however, I give up and hang it on the tree. Again, I force myself to look past the memories and give Mom a tree she deserves.

Tugging at the new lights and tinsel, I put the finishing touches on and plug it in. The money probably should have gone to something else, something more substantial, but I couldn’t help the need to make this Christmas just as good as if Mom were still here.

The soft glow illuminates the living room, giving it a cheery feel. Though not perfect, Mom would have loved it. And honestly, that’s all that matters right now.

As my eyes drift to all the different details, I draw in a shaky breath and rest my hand against the top of my shoulder, imagining it’s hers. “O Christmas Tree, O Christmas Tree,” I sing out, my voice warbled and thick with unshed tears. “How lovely are thy branches.”

Choking on the last line, I shake my head and refuse to continue. It just hurts too fucking badly. It doesn’t matter that I can almost hear her voice singing along with mine, the slightly flat sound discordant with my own. I just can’t. It’s far too soon.

I dip down and grab a wad of tinsel and wrap bits of it around me, making a makeshift necklace and corresponding dress. It’s silly, but that’s what I need to break myself from this spell. Walking over to the window, I study my reflection as I twist and turn, acting as if I’m at some fancy event in a sparkling gown.

Thankfully, the ding from the oven signals time for me to grab dinner and stop with this foolish nonsense. As the thick, gooey lasagna cools on my plate, I dig around in the grocery bag and pull out a small bottle of peppermint schnapps. Nothing like peppermint hot cocoa to put me in the holiday mood. Granted… the chocolate probably won’t go as well with the main meal.

Bringing my dinner into the living room, I curl up on the couch with a thick blanket. Since cutting down on the electric bill, I’ve made my peace with warm clothing, thick comforters, and a fire roaring away in the fireplace. All in all, it’s quite cozy.

The fork slides through the mountain of noodles, cheese, and sauce, and for a moment, I worry if I can actually bring myself to taste it. Not only is this the last thing my mother made, it’s also been in the freezer the longest. Part of me wants to eat it, but inside I’m scared.

Will it not be as good as I remember? Will it be just exactly as I remember? Which is worse? Honestly, I can’t tell, and that’s what makes my gut churn as I watch the steam waft off into the air.

I blow on it, stalling as I take my time bringing it up to my lips. Just one taste and the tears roll down my cheeks. It’s as if she just served it up. Like she’s still in the kitchen getting her own plate.

Soon, she’ll be striding in here, grinning from ear to ear as we snuggle on the couch. Dropping the fork back on the plate, I look over at the empty table. No milk and cookies adorn the worn wood. Yet one more thing that’s not the same.

Yes, I could have grabbed a thing of cookie dough, but what’s the point? So fucking much is not the same, and yet, the things that are gut me from the inside out. The lasagna has no fucking right tasting this good.

It should be stale, rotten, allowing me to mourn my mother in peace. But no. It’s just as good as any other dish she made. Stuffing my face, I let the tears fall as my heart cracks in two.

I’ve not let myself break down. Not really, so in some ways, it feels good to allow my heart to pour out until I’m depleted. My fingers tremble as I grab yet another plate, eating until every last bit of the small dish is gone.

That’s it. There’s nothing left. Everything else in the freezer is from friends and strangers.

There’s nothing fucking left.

Drawing in a deep breath, I grab my cocoa, now tepid, and dump it out, making a fresh one to sip on. Again, I pour a decent dollop of alcohol into the mug, needing a bit of liquid courage to shore me up through the night.

After cleaning up the dishes and putting everything away, I go back to the living room, drink in hand. I draw my feet up on the couch and sip my cocoa as I stare out the window. Snow falls even heavier, blanketing everything in a pristine white. The schnapps warms my insides, driving away any chance at a chill as I turn back to the television.

As always, on Christmas Eve, I queue up A Christmas Carol. Despite the pain it causes, I don’t want to break with tradition. It will already be broken enough tomorrow when I wake up to an empty house with no Mom’s Special Pancakes waiting for me. I didn’t even get a chance to make them with her before she died, and there’s no way in hell I’ll attempt it tomorrow.

Perhaps I’ll just sleep the day away, granting myself the gift of solitude. While others spring from their beds and race toward the tree to unwrap their gifts, I’ll probably just start working on packing things up so I can sell the house. But even that thought makes my insides cramp as a fresh wave of tears prick my eyes.

It would be stupid not to sell. This house is in a prime location and will fetch a great price. Besides, since moving back in with Mom, I had to give up my apartment. There was no way I could afford rent when I wasn’t working.

As devastating as it is to contemplate, I need to move on with my life. Ten months I’ve been away from work on a federal medical leave of absence. Ten months I’ve been a caretaker for my mother. Six months I’ve taken care of her when she could no longer care for herself. Two months I’ve dealt with hospice as I watched my strong, vibrant mother wither away into nothing.