The Christmas holiday is a holiday of wonder…

I wonder what my old, ailing, and estranged mother’s Christmas looks like now.

I wonder if she has a tree at the rehab center/nursing home, and if it brings her any joy.

I wonder if she has any of the personal Christmas mementos and decorations and keepsakes she has always treasured, so much so that she threw a literal tantrum when I told her I was formally converting to Judaism and wouldn’t be interested in owning any of that stuff.

I wonder if she still gets to cook anything like she used to, or even has the ability to do so anymore.

I wonder if she gets to listen to Christmas songs or watch favorite Christmas movies, like the original Miracle On 34th Street. (For the record, I caught most of it on TV last week and it both warmed my heart and made it ache.)

I wonder if she’s gotten to see any neighborhood lights outside, and if she did, I wonder if she remembered that silly little tune we used to sing if we saw houses that had flashing lights. And if she remembered, I wonder if she sang it.

I wonder if she’s cried yet for the long list of people she misses, as she allows herself to do at every holiday, because the grief brings them back to her for just a little while. (I don’t have to wonder if I’m on that list nowadays, but I do wonder if my MIA brother is.)

I wonder if she has anybody to tell any of this to, anymore — a fellow resident, a nurse, a therapist, anybody who would listen to her share about all that Christmas has always meant to her.

No matter how hard I try to redefine Christmas, or turn it into something I’m more comfortable or at peace with, or, when all else fails, just keep myself as busy as possible, Christmas will always remind me of my mother. There’s an onslaught of memories that I’ll be reckoning with each December for the rest of my life.

I don’t know how much of it she has left, but pretty much the only thing I have left of it all is to wonder.