When I was a little girl we used to go to my Uncle Iman and Aunt Polly’s house on Christmas Eve. It was a whole family affair with lots of people I didn’t know. I only knew I got presents from all of them. I remember a bowl of nuts with a nutcracker, my uncle’s pipe collection, and that Santa called every Christmas Eve to find out what to bring me for Christmas. He talked to each child individually and the parents gathered around to listen (and to make sure they had gathered the “right” stuff.)

One year, I put Santa to the test. I asked for a ballerina costume with a tutu, something I had told no one about before the phone call. Mom said it was a shocker request. I chalk it up to seeing the Nutcracker and wanting to become Clara. Fortunately, my Aunt Betty heard the request as well. She stayed up all night sewing a tutu out of one of her old slips and some tulle. She hung it on the door in the wee hours so Mom would find it and add it to the haul.

After Uncle Iman died, we moved Christmas to my grandmother’s house. It was a slightly different group of people, but still a big family celebration. Being slightly older, I got to help more. Setting the tables with Santa plates my grandmother hand painted and sometimes helping with the food in the tiny aqua-colored kitchen. Mostly, playing elf by sorting presents into huge piles for each guest after dinner.

After my grandmother’s house, the Christmas Eve celebration moved to Mom and Dad’s house in Clayton. Over time, the number dwindled. The older generation died off and some cousins stopped making the drive. For several years it seemed to be just our immediate family. Then we all began to marry and have children of our own. Soon, we were a large group with lots of bustling and noise. The gift piles grew larger again and it seemed each person had a mountain to open. And there were mountains of food as well. There were card games, board games, and football played in the yard. Sweet memories.

When Mom and Dad moved to Highlands, so did the celebration. Different in so many ways, but also the same. When Mom got sick, we met for the Christmas buffet at Lanier Village. We tried to keep things going, but over the years it got harder to gather the family. It became more of an individual visiting time because Mom would be overwhelmed with large groups.

Then last year, Dad passed right before the holidays. We all gathered for his service the week of Christmas. It seemed we had all come back together for the holiday. Not exactly a present-filled-food-feast kind of celebration, but still family holding onto each other.

This year, I have struggled much more than last year. I am missing Mom and Dad. Michael’s death added to the hole in my heart. I am feeling nostalgic. Remembering all the Christmases past, longing for the olden days. Happier times. I didn’t decorate this year. Not one bit. The kids were all going elsewhere, so what was the point. I didn’t have the bandwidth. I am learning to pay attention when I feel drained. This is not a physical tiredness…it is emotional. It has been an emotionally expensive couple of years. It will take some time to recover. It will take giving and receiving grace for myself and others.

Instead, I went the cemetery on Christmas and put greenery on their graves. I know that sounds morbid, but it was a lovely day. I stayed there for a while and listened to the birds and the breeze. A much different Christmas than previous years yet, it seemed just right for me. It is peaceful there. Nothing is required other than to sit. It feels like they are sitting with me. There is a bench at the cemetery where I can lie back and watch the clouds roll across the sky.

While gazing up, I realized the glue is missing. Mom and Dad were the most recent glue. Before them it was Grandmommie and Pop, before them Iman and Polly. Now we’re glueless. That is what I am feeling…unglued. Pulled apart. Unstuck. It feels unfamiliar. Disorienting. I know losing three immediate family members in just over a year has knocked my legs out from under me. I feel the instability of that amount of loss. I wonder if I have it in me to become the glue. I’m not sure I know how to be glue for more than my own family. What does Christmas future look like? Will we continue traditions or will we scatter?

Today, I sit on my back porch (thanks to this warm weather) and I listen to over 12 varieties of birds singing. They serenade me in my mourning. In my wondering and pondering, the sun warms my face. The mountains are firm on their foundations, showing me how to stand. My fingers tap the keys trying to find the words I need. Unglued means unstuck; confused; emotionally strained. For today, that is the word I use to describe what I am feeling. I am glueless.