For the fifty Christmases I have lived in America, each has been different. For my first twenty-three Christmases, I tried to be with my parents and family on the special day. For the next ten, I enjoyed them as a wife, then single mother. For the past eleven, I have been a grandmother and so young children and Santa have held a place in my Christmas season.
This year, I will spend it alone. My daughter and her family are two thousand miles away, my parents 480. My siblings and I rarely speak, and those conversations are superficial and brief. The local church has a dinner I have been invited to attend, a friend invited me to a Christmas pancake brunch with her and her husband, and I have considered attending a candlelight church service.
Reflecting on this past year has me really looking forward to the next. I will be leaving the little town I am currently living in, to move closer to my parents. My daughter too has plans to move closer. There will soon be four generations living near each other. Our time together may be short, it may be long, but we will each contribute to a part of that chapter as well.
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