a winter ripe orange use to sleep at the forgotten foot of his christmas stocking each year, mine too. my sweet boy doesn’t remember his first orange, his first christmas. not his second or third even too (i do) will he remember this one? his tenth; a bumpy round fidget ball where the firm slick fruit should be? his mother has forgotten more than an orange, surely. but this tattered trace of her fitful childhood was her second mother’s motherly tradition and it lies missing from his crimson woolen stocking this year and it is i who catches that twinkle in his eye the second before his cherub mouth speaks ‘i know what this is!’
and his singsong, his certainty, his arm disappear
into the foot of his sock. i reflect to him. back. his surprise. his wonder. let go of my mouth, leave it to hang wide. motionless. i am bewildered first. then steady sadness, it engulfs me, sets fire to a shame well burned before. is she further away now or closer still? either way, she is dead and i have forgotten an unforgettable piece of her. a piece of us. its tender enormity levels and makes whole. her. me. him. again.
about this poem
it’s not easy to keep living when central or core people in our lives die and yet we do it anyway. i started this poem a year ago just after christmas, just after i forgot to put the oranges at the bottom of my kids stockings. i remember in the moment being more stunned by the misstep then anything, like how can this be?? especially as the spirit of christine had shown up in new and surprising ways that holiday season. after the shock came the sadness, the guilt, the aching desire to express the un-expressible. ten years in, the grief around my adoptive mother’s death continues to change shape, to gather speed and burn slowly. it stays even as i begin to forget and i believe that’s the point; our grief is just another piece we get to hold on to, to keep coming back to after our dearly beloveds depart ~ sending love to those missing their people this holiday season, may their spirits reveal themselves to you in all the big and small ways. xo, s.
santos scribes 
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