When I was a little girl, you and I loved decorating the living room and tree to make it look festive. We loved Christmas. After decorating, we would bake cakes. “Make enough mince pies, because Santa likes them,” you would tell me, so we would always make more.
After all the baking was finished, we’d sit and enjoy the celebrations around us until my bedtime.
Christmas Eve came and you would take me up to bed and tuck me in, me totally excited at the thought of Santa coming. I’d get into my neatly made bed and fall asleep until Christmas morning.
I’d wake up and gasp at the sight before me. At the bottom of my bed would be loads of presents that Santa had brought during the night. I’d squeal in delight, excitedly ripping off the paper. Running downstairs, I would discover that Santa hadn’t just stopped in the bedroom: there were also lots of presents around the Christmas tree.
Many years later, the tradition continued and we’d bake the mince pies and cakes. The only thing that stopped was the presents at the end of the bed – I grew out of them.
One afternoon while baking, we were making extra mince pies as usual when I casually commented that you really loved them. Then it suddenly hit me that the extra wasn’t for Santa. I said, “Those extra mince pies were never for Santa, were they? They were for you!” You never said a word – a cheeky smirk was your only reply.
Christmas changed in 1986, when you suffered a nasty brain haemorrhage. It didn’t take you straight away. After collapsing on 22 December and suffering throughout Christmas, you passed away on the 29 December – and it never seemed the same again.
Only now am I starting to enjoy Christmas again, and while I don’t do the baking any more, I do have mince pies in the house. I leave one out just for you, as if you were still a part of my Christmas. And I make sure I put up the trimmings in memory of you, and us.
As Christmas draws closer once again, the decorations are up, and the angel – who I’ve named after you – sits in pride of place at the top of the tree, and I reflect once more on the past. Then I think: thanks for the wonderful memories of Christmas, Mum.