By Michele Neff Hernandez —

There is a song on the radio at this time of year, sung by the Carpenters, called “Merry Christmas, Darling.”  The first Christmas after my husband Phil died, hearing this song sent me into fits of tears.  Not the sweet, sad, nostalgic type of tears-these were the hitting my hands on the dashboard or kicking my bed, angry, unreasonable type of tears.

Every time the song came on, I wanted to scream at the beautiful voice on the radio because the sentiment was so infuriating.  The lyrics proclaim that every day is a holiday with the one you love, so even if you aren’t together on Christmas Eve, no worries, you can be together in your dreams.  At that point, I was way beyond wanting to spend Christmas with Phil in my dreams! What I wanted was to hold him, to feel his warm breath on my cheek, and to sit on the couch, side by side, sipping coffee while the kids opened their gifts on Christmas morning.

Every holiday tradition felt like a chore.  Determined to check off each task on the holiday list, I dutifully put up outdoor lights–crying yet again when I discovered how meticulously Phil had packed away the lights the year before.  The kids and I dragged the tree into the house, but the glittering lights seemed to emphasize my gloominess.

Opening a storage box, I found old Christmas cards full of cheerful greetings and good wishes.  I sighed out loud as I read each one, thinking of how radically our lives had changed in only 365 days.

One evening I reached into the bottom of the last plastic bin, and pulled out “Frosty.” Phil was famous in our family for the dance he did when Frosty, who played “Rockin’ Around the Christmas Tree” at the push of a button, made his holiday debut.  Phil’s dance included booty shaking, heel tapping, and all manner of silliness–unfailingly creating throughout the house gales of laughter.

No one could look at Frosty without giggling, because Phil’s dance was so outrageous. The kids would even try to get him to perform for their friends; they were always thrilled when he was successfully talked into a crowd-pleasing dance recital.

Sitting in front of the Frosty box alone, my sorrow surrounded me and filled me with self-pity.  All the things I missed most about my husband were represented by that stupid box. His love of life, his adoration of silliness, his ability to be completely in the moment, and his constant attempts to keep me laughing. My world was so empty and joyless without him.

While I sat contemplating how awful my life had become since Phil’s death, I absently reached over and pushed Frosty’s button. Even through my tears, I could not suppress the smile that Frosty’s song brought to my face.  It was as if Phil was standing right in front of me, in all his holiday glory, telling me to wipe my tears and accept the joy the holiday season still offered.

Spontaneously I recreated my husband’s holiday jig–that night, Phil and I danced together, right in the middle of the kitchen.  I could see his big smile and feel the warmth of his love with every note that the silly toy snowman warbled.  Plopping down in my seat at the end of the song–breathless and a little surprised–I felt a glimmer of joy for the first time in months.

The next time “Merry Christmas, Darling” came on the radio, I knew I needed to make peace with my inner Scrooge. As the opening chords played, I sat quietly and really listened.  This time I heard a new message:  Phil and I can no longer physically share the same couch on Christmas morning, but the memory of the many precious moments we shared over the years is mine forever.

In the years since his death, I have come to realize that I can have Christmas with Phil in my dreams for the rest of my life.  There are still days when my heart aches with the need to feel his touch, and I often find the holidays to be bittersweet. Nonetheless, whenever I feel my despair growing, I counter it with a holiday jig and the love of the man who can still make me smile.

Reach Michele Neff Hernandez at widowsbond@sbcglobal.net