December 6, 2010

  • Well Into December

    When I was seven years old, on December 1, 1951, my father died.  He was my hero, my world, but at the moment of his death I was angry at him over a spanking the previous evening, and I wished him dead.  I have posted previously here about his death and its aftermath.

    My mother and I grieved over him so fiercely that it affected all parts of our lives, as well as the lives of many others with whom we came into contact.  She, in particular, made every December an occasion for mourning, crying, and wishing he were still with us.  I would have preferred to forget, and as soon as I got away from her, I did my best to block him and his death out of my mind,

    It didn’t work.  He would come to mind in a thousand ways at any time at all.  December was particularly hard.  Then, when I was thirty, I spoke openly for the first time about my guilt over his death.  The healing started then.  In the thirty-some years since then, there were some December firsts that slipped by without my remembering the anniversary, and there were others when it would jump out at me from a calendar, bringing with it echoes of the old feelings.

    This year, in the latter days of November, I remembered that December was coming up, I remembered Daddy, and I smiled at the memories.  I got through the anniversary of his death without pain this year.

    When I was fourteen years old, on December 4, 1958, I was married for the first time.  Despite separation, divorce and subsequent remarriages, I tended to hang onto both regrets for my naive and ill-considered choices then, and recriminations against my abusive and unfaithful spouse.  Apparently, I’m over that now, as well.  The anniversary came, I remembered, and there was no emotional charge to the memories. 

    I’m into December, feeling well.  It’s just a couple of weeks and a day or two until the days start getting longer.  That thought does carry an emotional charge, of exhilaration and delight.


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