I passed by the little house with the mermaid on it just as dusk was settling on the Cape. No lights were on – a strange sight, since I hadn’t really seen the house in any other way than populated with people, bright with celebratory gatherings and lights of all sorts: candle, Christmas, and lamps. On this night, in the gloaming of a cold December afternoon, a Christmas tree sat dimly in the window, and my heart broke for my friend JoAnn who was, at that very moment, greeting people who were saying goodbye to her Mom.
Losing a parent is tough at any time of the year, but I would imagine it’s doubly so around the holidays. And losing a second parent at this time of the year must feel especially sorrowful. As I looked upon the empty house disappearing into the darkness, I thought of my friend and what she must be going through. It was a helpless feeling, with no way to line it with any sort of comfort. That’s the grief inherent in losing a loved one. There is no way around it, no way to soften its blow.
Unable to process it, I turned the corner toward JoAnn’s old home, just around the bend and looking over a pond. I paused at the edge of the water. The moon had come out. It still wound its way around the earth, it still reflected the sun’s light. The wind whipped around me and I remembered the parties where her Mom would sit beside me with a cup of tea. It was never cold then, not like it was now. There was warmth in our hearts, even when the fall arrived, and winter afterward. Now there is an emptiness, and I’m not sure it can ever be filled.
Driving back onto Shore Road, I took one last glance at JoAnn’s tree. The moon hovered above the house. The sky was deep blue. The mermaid shifted in shadow. The tears were silent.
