As we shopped the stores for our annual antipasti display, selecting the right meats - prosciutto (pro-zhute), sopressata (soap-pre-sot), genoa (gen-oh-a) salame and the like - along with all the cheeses, olives and tasty pickings; as we placed and picked up the order of fish for our Christmas Eve feast and spent an entire day cooking it; as my mom made her delicious lasagna for Christmas Day; it was glaring that, even with the forced smiles on our faces, even though we were all excited to celebrate our newest family member's very first Christmas, the fact that there was something missing was glaring.
There was no one there to order fish quite like my dad did. No one to come by and steal a bite of the shrimp as we breaded and fried it. No one to kiss my mom on the cheek and tell her "we did it again" once the cooking was complete. No one to dance around the living room with my mom as she hustled along to the best of Motown and disco music and sometimes a Christmas song or two. No one to toast the family and job well done in the kitchen before we all dove into the seven varieties of fish spread across the dining room table. No one to hold court as we all listened to the incredible stories from days past. No one to sit on the couch by the tree and wait for his daughters to all come down the stairs together on Christmas morning as had been tradition for the last 28 years. No one to hand out gifts to everyone only to realize that my mom had put the wrong names or no name at all on a good portion of them. No one to beg my mom to cook just one meatball all the way through before she put it in the sauce. No one to tell my mom that her lasagna was "better than last year" and that she had really outdone herself. No one to read The Polar Express with. No one to hug me at the end of a long but incredible two days and say "Merry Christmas, kid. Did you get everything you wanted? I wish we could have done more."
And for the first time in nearly 30 years, I didn't have everything I wanted. Because all I wanted, all I want, is to have all of those things back.
And as I sat there last night, waiting for the New Year, I cried. Because, even though 2013 was by far the worst year of my life, it saw many incredible moments including the very last moments with my dad. Singing along backstage to Sonny Turner. Watching him hold his grandson, my nephew, for the first time. Seeing his bright eyes light up every time he saw a picture of him. Hearing him tell me he's proud of me. Sitting with him in the hospital for hours and doing crossword puzzles together. Having him test my sauce to make sure it was up to family standards. And just knowing that I could always count on him to be there for me, no matter what.
Yes, 2013 was filled with memories I will never forget. And part of me feels as though moving into 2014 won't allow me to hold on to those quite the way I could before. But I have no choice. It's now a new year, and so, instead of dreading the future, I'm committed to moving forward and allowing the past to only make me stronger.
This year, and every year, I promise myself not to take the people I love for granted. I promise myself to live life to the fullest and stop sweating the small things. I promise to work harder for the things I want because anything less than what I want isn't worth working for anyway. I promise to be a better person through these things. And, above all, I promise to never let the memories go, to allow them to make me better, stronger and to let my Dad's incredible spirit live in me.
So last night, I raised my glass. Not to the usual celebration. But to a solid foundation that will allow for a happy new year and what I hope will be a happy life.
