Being home for Christmas is a bittersweet mixed bag. On the one hand, it’s important to be with my dad. On the other, I think I really get on his nerves sometimes, and in spite of how similar we are in personality, we don’t have all that much in common. And then there are all the other memories, regrets, and unfinished business that being home dredges up, between me and my dad and my stepmom, too, but most having to do with my mom and her side of the family.

Having lost my mom three years ago just a few weeks prior to Christmas, I find the season to be very difficult anyway. Last year I stayed home in Belgium, and for Christmas Day, it was pretty lonely, but friends came from Sweden for New Years, and we had a lovely time in Bruges, Brussels, and Liege. Dad was disappointed that I didn’t come home though, and I knew I needed to try to go home this year. So I went. I ended up being terribly melancholy, and very nearly depressed. Heck, if I’m gonna be melancholy, I’d rather be thus with my dog and cats nearby.

Driving through Mom’s hometown on the way to Dad’s family’s old home place, he had Ray Price in the CD player, and I swear, could he have picked any music that would have reminded me more of her? She loved his music, and For the Good Times would’ve had me nearly in tears anyway, so driving by places so filled with memories of her with that music in the background was almost more than I could stand. So I looked out the window and pretended to be daydreaming and bit back the tears.

Dad has been remarried for over forty years. There is little connection between him and my mom now; there’s just me. I know I must remind him of her, and that’s not exactly easy for him, I suppose. He has his own regrets and painful memories. When his own mother lay dying, he tearfully apologized to me for all the bad blood between him and Mom; it was very difficult for him but to his credit, he did it. The only other time I ever saw, well, heard him cry was when I told him via telephone that she’d died; he simply burst into tears, incredulous, and cried, “What?!?” I know he loves me, but I don’t think he loves having me around all that much. He wants me home, but when I’m actually there, it’s not really pleasant for him. But not being there, when he hasn’t got all that many Christmases left, steals something from both of us that will leave me with even more regrets. I’ll never get over not being with Mom on her last Thanksgiving; I don’t want to miss Dad’s last Christmas. But is that how you’re supposed to live? Making decisions based on what will leave you with less guilt?

There is so much baggage in my past, probably as there is in just about everyone’s. I don’t know quite how to carry it. I feel as if I’m shifting it from one hand to the other all the time, as one of my favorite authors once said. It’s filled with things said and unsaid running continuously through my head, an endless reel of regrets and what-ifs.