Christmas Remembrance

Every year on the Sunday before Christmas, my siblings and I gather to make wreaths to carry to the cemetery in remembrance of those who are gone. They are not really wreaths, more like sprays: available greenery that are layered, wired and tied with ribbon. Thirty in all. We meet at the entry to my driveway these days. There is plenty of space and my house is here with its brick floored entryway in case of rain. Each one of us brings our specified greenery: palmettos, magnolia, pine, youpon and cedar. These last two with berries.

When I first came out, my older brother, Billy, had left a small trailer overflowing with cedar. The cloudy blue berries were profuse and startlingly beautiful. I couldn't resist taking photographs. The fresh, scented boughs were a glory all by themselves. Something deep inside of me recognized and identified with what I saw.

Then the others arrived and the work began. The careful placing of palmetto first to stabilize the rest before assembling the whole. We work well together; the purpose unites. And because we four are less agile than we were, we have invited a few of the younger generation. My daughter, Moira and her daughter, Olivia are with us and a few others. When all of the "wreaths" are ready they are loaded into cars and taken to the cemetery.

Here the cold wind blows from over the bayou, ruffling marshes, shaking trees, and reddening cheeks and noses. The stones that mark each resting place are still and gray, only slightly brightened by the festive sprays. We stand and feel this place where so many of those we have loved are said to be resting. I believe they are more evident in the marsh and water...the cry of the rail...and the wind in the cedars that lean above my mother's and father's graves. My aunts and uncles, grandfathers and grandmothers are here as well, not to mention the greats and a couple of great greats. Ah time... What is time when the breath becomes air and air becomes mystery. Even as I write that last, I inhale sharply, then call out "Mama". For she is the one I still cry for...still hope she will hear.