celeste_noelani | That First Afterwards Christmas

We crowd ourselves into the front room for our gift giving extravaganza, the dining room of our usual holiday cheer re-purposed as my grandmother's bedroom. Her twin sized bed and card table desk have both been brought downstairs so she can tend to her son at all hours of day or night.

The living room carpet, where we used to roll around in new-toy stupor, is being dented by the wheels of a hospital bed. An air conditioning unit rattles away in the window, making the house feel at a little like the Christmas songs say this day should feel. I am freezing in my long pants and sweatshirt, but the chilled air is not nearly cold enough for my father.

It is days shy of one year since the surgery that paralyzed him. A few months since he was released from the hospital to die in the relative peace of his own home. He's got twelve weeks left at most, they said, preparing us for celebrating Christmas without him. There is no way to prepare celebrating with his bed in the next room.

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