Monday, December 2, 2013

Last

As I survive my 60th year I struggle with “last” more often than “first.” I guess I am lucky to have lasted this long, but I am more accustomed to a life of firsts.

“This will be our last Christmas in the house,” my wife remarked, stating the fact without emotion.

The words settled into my consciousness with the dull thud of a boulder dropped into wet river silt.

“You know that, don't you?”
“I guess. I hadn't really thought about it. Not that way.”

My wife gave me something between a “you should have known” and a “are you kidding me” look.

“I'm taking down all the fall decorations today.”

She left me at the table with my breakfast, but the cinnamon-sprinkled latte, toasted croissant, and aged Gouda cheese were no longer as reassuring as they had been.

Big changes were coming. It was a new beginning, our first as a childless couple. We had been married 14 years ago with three children each. We had blended a family and raised all six. Earlier this year, the youngest had graduated college and gotten a job.

Six bedrooms, four baths, 1885 Victorian for sale.

The house was too big for just two. And my wife struggled with the stairs again since her knee operation had failed. We had already talked of moving ever since the last child had left. But I hadn't been ready. I had rebuilt this house when we got married. I still loved the authentic character, sunlight filtered through the wavy-glass windows, fir floors that remembered every footstep, and the bright echos of sounds reflected by lathe and plaster walls. I would never own another home so spectacularly vibrant with the sense of Victorian romanticism.

“We'll give the kids our ornaments this year,” my wife declared, walking through the kitchen, eying my untouched repast. “When shall we get the tree?”

She left before I could answer. It was a rhetorical question, one to prepare me.

My last Christmas tree ordeal. My last struggle to bring an enormous, 12-foot tree through the double front doors, bending the trunk at a 90-degree turn to slide through the single door into the parlor. I did it by myself last year, my wife smart enough to disappear so that she didn't have to hear my swearing and cursing as tree versus father played out for yet another year. This would be my last tree...

STOP! Sentimentality will not serve me.

I stared at my croissant, took a drink of coffee, then ate my breakfast. It tasted different, better, as if it were my last meal.

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