My little mother christmas
As far back as I can remember, we always celebrated Christmas at home.
My mother, who was not the most fervent of the Catholics, gave great importance to this time of year; it had to be a magical moment, a kind of truce in the routine, a few exceptional days before facing the sadness and melancholy of winter. Every year, as December approached, she put all her heart and the limited financial resources available to us.
I remember our Christmas trees, every little decoration that my brother and I hung on their branches, the multicoloured light garlands that blinked in the twilight at night, the Advent calendar whose little boxes we opened every day in December, waiting for Santa Claus. I can still smell the smell of clementine skins on the stove, which, burning slowly, spread a sweet and subtle fragrance in the dining room. I still remember the Christmas tables dressed in a large red tablecloth, decorated with pine cones and scintillating candlesticks, set with the most beautiful dishes. My mother didn't often bring out silverware and crystal glasses, but for Christmas it was unthinkable that we would eat in ordinary dishes. Even if we were not very wealthy, we had to ensure a minimum of standing.
All day long on December 24th, she was busy in the kitchen as if we had to receive the presidential couple. The menu changed very little from one year to the next, it was part of an immutable ritual. There were always scallops and smoked salmon, oysters, foie gras, snails, roasted guinea fowl with chestnuts, ripened cheeses and logs. My father used to bring out the best wines from his cellar, Burgundy, Gewurztraminer, Gigondas, it was also one of the rare times in the year when he served Champagne. And then, at the end of the meals, we were obviously entitled to sweets: chocolates, pralines, Catalan peppers with honey and hazelnuts, almond paste fruits... My mother loved it. Three hours before New Year's Eve, she would lock herself in the bathroom to get ready, make herself ready, put on makeup and dress properly. My father, brother and I also had to wear smart clothes. We played her because we knew it was important to her.
When I found out in January 2010 that she had cancer and that her chances of survival were very slim, I immediately thought of all the Christmas celebrations we would no longer celebrate together. Strange and ridiculous as it may seem, I was visceral afraid to see her die during the Christmas holidays. His death would have seemed to me even more unjust, unbearable and insurmountable. It seemed inconceivable to me that my mother and the most beautiful memories of my childhood should be taken away from me at the same time. I could not bring myself to the point that this Christmas period would never become one of sadness and tears.
It died on June 29,2010, in the early summer, on the most distant date of Christmas in the calendar, on the antipodes of the winter solstice. As if she wanted to preserve a little from our childhood, my brother and I, give us a little time to prepare ourselves for the next holidays without her. Yet she suspected that we would never be able to fill the gaping void that her departure would leave in our lives.
A few days ago, I started to open the small windows of my Advent calendar. I've been buying one every year since I was a kid. With my companion, we decorated the living room with pretty light garlands, scented candles, small figurines that remind us of winter and the cold. We bought a new tablecloth and golden placemats for our festive meals. And, at the time of writing, I'm drying clementine skins on the electric convector in my office... I've kept the Christmas habits of my childhood. Not because I am a nostalgic indecrottable (although...), but because all this staging, which some people might find childish or cucul-la-praline, is nowadays the most beautiful way for me to re-connect with her and honour the memory of my mother, she whom I sometimes teased by asking her why she gave herself so much of herself:
"You have every right not to believe in Christmas, big guy. Just think, then, that we are just celebrating the chance to be together again, the four of us, alive, around the table.