Once again, with feeling

Three and a half decades ago, in another house, standing in front of another piano, I wore a hot pink maternity dress loaned to me by my fashionable sister-in-law who had preceded me in motherhood by two years. The dress was stretched to its limits by the 10 pound 6 ounce baby who would be born a few weeks later. That night Tom and I sang Christmas songs with a group of friends we had gathered together for a party. It was the start of what we called The Holiday Song Fest and Glucose Tolerance Test, a night of music and overindulgence that became a tradition.

 We—now I—have never missed a year. That includes the year we lost power, went out with flashlights to guide the cars in, and sang by candlelight. The year my oven broke, and I drove into town to use the kitchen in my son’s apartment—the 10 pound 6 ounce son who was by then a 6’2” college student. It includes the two years during the pandemic when we set up laptops, tablets, and phones in the living room, and Zoomed everyone in. It includes the party I gave two months and ten days after Tom died. I knew not seeing him at piano would be hard. But not having the party would have been harder.

 It was just something that we did. It was the only party we (introverts who knew how to work a room) gave. It was more than a tradition, is more than a tradition. It is a ritual.

 When you don’t grow up with rituals—religious, cultural, familial—which I did not, you get to create your own. Last night, the ritual continued. Once again, I set out the same desserts—orange poppyseed cake, lemon bars, brownies, Ranger cookies—because no one wants me to deviate. (I did make pecan tartlets one year. And there were grumblings.)

Once again, my musical friends brought their instruments. And now, for the third year, someone other than Tom—the uber-talented Jane--played the piano. Once again my family and friends tolerated 12 verses of Children Go Where I Send Thee. And once again--for a moment--all was good. All was well. All was healed.