It is 6 am and I have a weird rock in my chest. All I can see is the vacancies and empty spots. It's Christmas Eve and I feel the losses. I miss my dad, my dog Frodo and the children I've never had. I miss my father in law, my brother in law, and my uncles.
My mom is usually here today but she's at my sister's house so I miss her too but will see her on Christmas Day.
I don't know why I'm so melancholy. I need to take a bath in sage. I need to meditate on everything I have. I pray in my head for happy thoughts.
I look at my Christmas tree. There's a picture of me and my mom on an ornament that my bestie made me. I look around the house. Five stockings. One for me and the others for my husband, the moms, and my shih tzu chewie. I see all the presents. My island of misfit toys collection lined up on the table. My own books piled up to bring to a reading next year. How did I write those? It seems impossible.
I see myself in the mirror. The mirror is edged with rhinestones. I'm aging. There are lines. I'm plump. But I know who I am at least. I've realized the outside is meaningless, and it's the inside filling that counts. I also know I'm not my job. And I've realized my voice has value. That I'm a writer at heart and my pen is powerful. That I'm strong.
So I breathe. And look at the Christmas tree and smile. Merry Christmas.
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