Before Christmas, all three of our individual Christmas trees fell apart in unique ways. For my brother and I the lights simply failed; the other family tree was slowly disintegrating and is nearing the rubicon of being unusable. It seemed fitting since all traditions were wrong, awry, and quite broken.
In our family, lights burning out have often either heralded death or occurred relentlessly afterwards. The extreme case was my Grandfather’s passing, that is for another post, perhaps.
Right before Christmas, a light in the ensuite Mom and I use burned out. The symbolism did not escape my notice or heart; I chose not to replace it for the duration of the holidays. A light is indeed out; a family of four reduced to three.
