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Ghosts of Christmas Past

I do not fear the ghosts
of my Christmas past.
My yearly visit with each one
is a gift
a present
for this one day

I drive out to Lantzville Beach
and bring my dog along
My mother loved dogs and beaches
I wave when I see her figure on the rocky break
sea salted; wind tangled long red hair
streaming behind her
knees tucked to her chest.
She is singing a Gordon Lightfoot song
to coax the otters into view
We sing together
that one song
and on the last note
she is gone.

I travel south to the power line
behind the rifle range
The snow shawled copse
thick with rogue fir
I see my papa, and wave to him
he stands by a lone scotch pine
I nod acceptance, and he puts his hat on top of the tree
he points out the spots to place
the seedballs I’ve made for the cheeky nuthatches
When the last morsel is placed,
I look at my papa, his ruddy face set in firm Scottish approval
I watch him reach for his hat from the tree
and when I look back to see his face
he is gone

I gingerly step on the iced lake of Fourth Dam
It has seized weeping branches in a cold clutch
firmly under the water
I wave to my uncles, incautious in their immortal youth
deftly leaping over frozen tree trunks
in second hand skates, blades sharpened by their own hands
They beckon me to join them
but my skating days are long gone
Shrugging, they race each other to the end of the lake
entering the soft, stinging mist
and they are gone.

I push my mittened hands into my pockets,
watch my dog careen from side to side
on the trail leading to Collier Dam
My dog stops beside a lone fisherman
attempting, unsuccessfully, 
to put a worm on a hook.
I laugh, and my father looks up,
his thick dark eyebrow raised 
in mock sternness
I sit beside him,
watching him effortlessly throw the line out
it arcs in a perfect semi circle
before breaking the glassy surface
and scattering ripples.
I look up to him, to acknowledge the beauty of the cast
but he is gone

At Departure Bay Beach
I push the dog into the back, and move over to the passenger side
To make room for my polar bear husband.
His dark blue eyes search mine, and
when I smile,
the lines around his mouth I loved so much
deepen in happiness

With a diamond on Christmas Eve
we pledged to be engaged forever
to live in wicked, delightful sin
Scant years later
we broke that promise
to honour his dying wish
that he leave this world as my husband.
My eyes swim, and I push my mittens against them
when I open my eyes
he is gone

I come home, start the playlist on my phone
and sit at the kitchen table as Liona Boyd fills the room
I do some minor patchwork with paint
on the old ceramic Christmas tree
before I begin to place multicoloured bulbs in assorted holes.
My grandmother titters in the corner
She is rocking, and reading one of those spicy Harlequin Romances
she is obsessed with
I listen to her chide and harass the characters and
after an hour,
I put the star on top and call to her,
“Behold!”
But she is gone.

My ghosts of Christmas past will visit once a year
and in my melancholy
I am grateful.
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