A Christmas Carol in the Palm of My Hand

The cold Christmas night crept in through the cracks in my window. Outside, the twinkling lights and decorations of our neighbours seemed to dance, a taunting spectacle. Inside, there was only a suffocating silence, broken by my little brother’s muffled sobs, held back with all his might.

Just two days before, laughter still filled this house. Mom, with a pale face but still managing a smile, sang her favourite songs on the karaoke machine. We joined in, our voices blending in a sweet melody, punctuated by bursts of happy laughter. We joined hands and offered prayers in hope of a positive outcome on the occasion of our mother’s 62nd birthday.

“God, please heal Mom…” I whispered to myself, a tear trickling from the corner of my eyes.

That Christmas Eve, a video call with family out of town added a touch of warmth. Laughter and Christmas greetings echoed back and forth. Mom, with what little strength she had left, waved at the phone screen. Her smile, though faint, was the most beautiful Christmas gift this year.

But who would have thought it would be her last smile? At least I had managed to capture it in our final family photo with her.

The night grew deeper. We continued to sing songs of praise and worship to the Owner of Christmas, never stopping, our hands still clasped together. The church bells rang out sweetly, welcoming the new date on Christmas night.

Mom’s voice began to fade. The grip of her hand in mine grew weaker and colder. Her breath grew shallow, and a final, soft sigh escaped her lips. At exactly midnight, surrounded by the hymns of Christmas, her journey on this earth ended. Her hand, which I had held tightly, was now cold. She had gone.

The world seemed to spin out of control. It was as if I had been teleported into a dark, empty space. I experienced significant disappointment and was momentarily unable to process my thoughts. All the Christmas decorations, the twinkling lights, and the Christmas songs we had just sung felt like a cruel joke.

How could Christmas be this way? A day of joy, of rebirth, had become a day of sorrow and loss.

My father was devastated. My little brother and I tried to be strong for him, but our own hearts were shattered. In the days that followed, we moved through a daze of grief and funeral arrangements. My father, who had always been so strong, now looked fragile. He had to manage everything alone now.

I am currently part of the “sandwich generation,” responsible for supporting my father, assisting my younger brother—who is still in college—and meeting the needs of my own family.  I need to cover expenses including Mom’s medical bills, my brother’s tuition, children’s needs, and other bills.  All the financial burdens were on my shoulders. I fought alone, without Mom by my side. I truly experienced firsthand what it felt like to be a sandwich generation.

It felt like just yesterday Mom was excitedly planning a Christmas and New Year’s vacation at her dream resort. We had even booked a room, imagining her joy as she enjoyed the holiday with her grandchildren. That dream was now gone, along with her.

These past three Christmases have become a new heart-wrenching ritual for our family. We gather, not in the festive bustle of Christmas joy, but in a tearful, melancholic remembrance of Mom.

I still can’t believe it, can’t accept it, can’t bear it, feel so unfulfilled, can’t let go. All the anger, sadness, and disappointment still feel so real.

“I’m sorry, Mom. I’m sorry I couldn’t fulfill your last dream. I’m sorry I didn’t know your deepest longings so I couldn’t make them happen. I’m sorry I wasn’t your confidante in your last moments, because I had hoped we’d have many stories to share, laughter to exchange, and memories to make at the resort you always talked about…”

Only endless prayers and Christmas songs accompany Mom’s passing. I hope she rests in God’s peace, waiting for the bright morning of eternity, where we will all be reunited. Maranatha!!!

Kreator : Vidya D’CharV