Christmas, Minus One

We said our goodbyes in June, and the months since blur into mist. At unexpected moments, awareness of loss hits; tears spill unbidden. Family gathering, Christmas Eve as usual . . . minus one. We quietly exchanged gifts, found flowers from her funeral crafted into hand-made jewelry, kaleidoscopes, treasured mementoes. I cooked grapes today, dark muscadines. I extracted seeds and peelings, and measured life-sustaining juice through the metal funnel she used from the day of her marriage. It came to me dented and bent, like her body had been at 93. I still taste those fresh-from-the-oven chocolate rolls after school, garden tomatoes warmed by the sun, hot biscuits with apple jelly, squeezed from the peelings after she baked crisp slices in cinnamon-rich pie. I'm glad I didn't know then, about being allergic to Cinnamon.