hallelujah

I’m making hot chocolate. You know that kind that you get from that box only once a year? That kind that covers the kitchen counter with that chocolate dust after you open it. That kind that smells like nostalgia, reminds you of the time spent putting on a snowsuit, and that little glimmer of hope you had when you stayed up late, just to wait for that little magical jingle.

There’s a half-empty box of ornaments beside me. Every year I open the exact same box, and every year I say the same thing: I can’t believe how many Christmas decorations there are.

They’re taken from house to house, from each stage of life, and only opened once a year. Maybe that’s why they’re special.

Sometimes I don’t understand the point of ornaments. To put something up and then take it down a few weeks later. It’s like we’re only allowed to revisit the past this time of year. And then these memories get safely tucked away into a box, and are allowed to be revisited again 365 days later.

It’s grounding, in a way. Each year, we get older. But the decorations made from questionable materials in kindergarten somehow never age.

I’ve already hung up my sentimental favourites - the miniature pine cone with the red ribbon, the elf with an E on its sweater, and the homemade angels made with god knows what from when I was about 5.

Those little pieces of time that we get to re-open once a year.

She’s sleeping on our couch beside the tree. Beside the angels, the crystal bulbs, and the twinkling fairy lights. Beside the ones made with beads, strings, and feathers. Beside the ones that really should be thrown out, but we don’t have it in our hearts to.

A few candles are lit on the fireplace mantle.

Her eyes are closed. She’s curled up under a blanket. Her hair is sparse, she’s wearing purple pyjamas.

This is her last session of chemotherapy before the new year.

Taking a break. Peace.

I turn down the volume of the radio. Hallelujah is playing.

Well your faith was strong but you needed proof.

I want to believe in miracles. I want to believe in magic. I want to believe in fairy dust and those twists of faith. I want to believe in divine timing and divine intervention. I want to believe in the things that people are too afraid to ever admit they believe in.

Hot chocolate in hand, I hang a few more fairies and glittery snowflakes.

It’s not a cry that you hear at night

It’s not somebody you see in the light

I want to believe in dancing in white silk dresses and falling in love. I want to believe in so many happily ever afters. I want to believe in the always, I want to believe in the unconditional, and I want to believe in the forever.

I check to see how much chemotherapy is left in the bottle attached to her body.
There’s not a lot left.

It's a cold and it's a broken Hallelujah

I want to believe that maybe if I prayed hard enough, a universal force would wave their hand and take it away. I want to believe in a cure. A cure for sickness, and a cure for heartbreak. A cure for grief, a cure for giving up.

I want to believe in angels, I want to believe in spirits, I want to believe that there is something out there that will save us when the machines and the monsters that we’ve built fail us.

Well, maybe there's a God above.

I want to believe that death is easy. That it’s like falling into a never ending stream of white light. I want to believe in life after death. I want to believe that every ending turns into a new beginning, even if you can’t see it just yet.

I want to believe that when I’m gone, you’ll put our memories in a box and keep living. And maybe you’ll revisit them more than just once a year, but I hope you’ll miss me and our forever too.

I hang the last few ornaments on the tree. It’s overflowing with memories and feelings and the past that I’ll have to take down again. Maybe some that we’ve outgrown, and some I need to let go of.

But we never forget them.

And I can’t stop the tears from falling.

Goodnight, mom.

Hallelujah.