We gathered around the Christmas tree all those years ago, six instead of seven, trying to hold onto something familiar. A family whole, minus one. Mom had only been gone eight days. If felt like more. It felt like less. Her spirit swirled around us, laughing, teasing us with the memories.

A lost and joyous ghost of Christmas past.

Dressed in green.

Draped in black.
I had just turned 17 when Mom died, but the long journey to that Christmas began when I was 15. Before then, I didn’t even know what breast cancer was, let alone the devastation it would cause my family. The doctor didn’t catch it in time and, after a mastectomy and months of radiation, they let us know it was too late. We would lose her; it was just a matter of when.

Still, I chose not to believe it. I was, after all, a high school student. This was my time to rebel against my mom, not to mourn her. I needed to spend time with her, but there wasn’t any. I wouldn’t know until later how much I needed that. By then, she was gone….READ MORE….