The Luniferous Gazette #28: How do you love something that is no longer yours?

Gently as Snowfall

*

 *Salt Lake salt crystal ornament from Antelope Island

I’m listening to some of my mother’s cherished Christmas tracks while writing this post; a particular favorite was “Breath of Heaven (Mary’s Song)” by Amy Grant in the CD, Mother & Child. Christmas has always been my favorite holiday season. Growing up, it was often a hectic rush of decorating the house, family get-togethers, eating oven-baked trays of trail mix (*Chex, Cheerios, peanuts and never enough chocolate chips) under a tree decked out to the sparkle-max, caroling, and the story of the Christ Child. Now, my Christmas Day tends to be quieter. 

I was born in the same birth religion as my mother and many of her ancestors before her, but I currently have no certain belief in any particular faith. However, I still hold a fond measure of love for what my mother once held dear—she adored Nativity sets, perhaps because of the hope and tender bond represented by them? She carried a lot of pain and sadness in her life, and I think Nativity sets were like a little sanctuary for her heart’s most gentle wishes. Now when I gaze upon the mother and child figures in the Nativity scene, I am reminded of her kindness, and the love she gave me for the short period she was a part of my life. 

I got to be her daughter, and I will always cherish that connection. Collecting Nativity sets is like drawing a scrap of her warm happiness over me, almost like a cozy blanket in wintertime. I’ve thrifted a few that I know she would’ve loved over the years: 

1. This tiny, beautiful ceramic set made in Guatemala is my newest addition. 

2. I love the simple familial silhouettes and the wooden star in this one.  

3. I never thought I’d be a plate person as I got older, but I couldn’t pass up the comforting embrace of mother and child in “Navajo Madonna” by artist Ted De Grazia.  

The older I get, the more I am shedding things I inherited. Physical and mental belongings that don’t fit me anymore. But sometimes, I pick up something that was once cherished dearly by another now gone from my life. I honor this fragment that they held close to their heart with a soft moment in mine before loving it, and letting it go—

I still hope in you,
In the astral dust
That is mine, too,

That lone sparks may spangle
Existence with keen light.
Even after the death of the last
Star in the sky, when only
Phantom beams grace the dark
Expanse in one final burst of
Photonic radiance, and all
Our heavens and hells fade,

The cosmos will bear
Echo of my heart—

And you in it.

 

*An excerpt from my poem “Wondering Airs,” from Tangible Creatures. Originally published in 2021 in Exponent II, 41(2), 37. 

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