This will be our first Christmas without Mum.
I know many other families will be missing loved ones from the festive table this year – whether through death, illness or simply not being able to get together due to Covid restrictions. But I think there’s something extra-poignant about an absent mother.
No matter how she might have been feeling, Mum always made sure we had a lovely Christmas.
She was the one who bought the presents and spent hours closeted away in the dining room, wrapping them up.
She was the one who filled pillowcases with gifts, and made sure we had surprises along with jokey “after dinner” presents.
She was the one who always bought us (me, my brother and sister) a selection box each, well into adulthood.
She was the one who got up at 5am on Christmas Day to switch on the oven, ready for the turkey.
She was the one who bought me the tinny-sounding electric organ from Woolworth’s that I eventually gave to my first boyfriend, who played it in the band I joined as a teenager.
She was the one who thought it would be funny to buy the 14-year-old me a 32A cup bra when I had absolutely nothing to fill it with (and no, I didn’t find it funny – I ran upstairs crying – but it made me smile years later, and I mentioned the story in my eulogy).
She was the one who did all the hard work of buying, packing, decorating, cooking, especially after my dad had a stroke and couldn’t help any more.
She was the one with a smile on her face when she saw us all tucking into turkey with all the trimmings, as she sat down at the table with a much smaller portion than the rest of us (but always with the “parson’s nose”).
She was the one who insisted on a special glass of sherry at 11am on Christmas Day, with a plate full of shortbread biscuits – a tradition that later shifted to the classier scrambled eggs and smoked salmon with a glass of fizz.
She was the one I spent every Christmas Day with (bar one) after I separated from my husband – and started the new tradition of a thumbs-up double selfie.
She was the one who taught me how to cook a full Christmas turkey dinner for the first time – in my late 50s.
She was the one who, even when she struggled to write, still sent Christmas cards to the friends she made years ago when she worked in a school office.
She was the one who made us cry with laughter last year when we played trivia games and consistently came up with hilarious answers.
She was the one who would always raise a glass of prosecco to propose a toast to us all – while wondering why I couldn’t just have a little glass of rose because “there’s not much alcohol in it” (I gave up alcohol 10 years ago, but she never stopped trying to get me back into it).
She is the one who won’t be there. Not this time, not ever again. But she will be there in spirit, in our hearts.
And I share this with you as one custodian of her spirit, her heart, her story.
I miss my mum – and not just at Christmas. Always.
So if your mum – or any loved one – is missing for Christmas this year, I send you unconditional love and understanding, as well as an invitation to keep their spirit and story alive.
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