I love Christmas, especially in India where it is still possible to approach it with simplicity and stillness. We do a lot of baking and invite close friends over for meals. We play carols all day long, beginning from December 1st, and we have a fire in the fireplace most evenings and long leisurely chats after dinner.

This year, because of Mom’s death, we are going slow on the gifts and keeping the parties small and I find it’s a good way to remember her. As we decorated  last night, Dad and I traded stories about how she loved draping the tree with garlands  (which we all hated) and how she never failed to find a few strays to bring home for Christmas dinner. Many of the ornaments we have are things she and Dad gave us – like the Silent Night music box her boss gave her the year I was born and which they sent to me here the first Christmas I spent in India 26 years ago.

I thought Dad would be really sad at this  season, but he’s a right jolly old elf, smiling and laughing in spite of himself. We have wonderful conversations (even if he repeats himself a dozen times in one hour), especially if they are about Mom and how they met. A psychologist friend of mine told me this is the period of integration in a person’s life, when telling and re-telling the important stories of an entire lifetime is crucial for understanding who one is. I think that’s what Dad is doing. There are four themes: his childhood (particularly to do with his mother), his time in the seminary, meeting Mom and his work as a librarian. The stories are the same each time (including the parts he habitually forgets and needs to be prompted on: “What was his name? Bernie! Right.” “Which house was that in? Oh, yes, that was the Tory House.”)

I answer. I listen. It’s Christmas.