"And there will come a time, you'll see..."

Ah, Christmas. As I was telling my sister today, my favorite of all holidays. She didn't believe me, of course. She thought I was being sarcastic, as I have a tendency to be.  She is a fan of Thanksgiving, as well.  Personally, I can pass on Thanksgiving.  But Christmas? The finest of all seasons.  Deck the halls, and all that.

This Christmas was, however, a bit small.  In recent years, my uncle has joined us for Christmas, and, occasionally, so had one of my mother's cousins.  In addition, of course, there was also my recent ex.  None of the above joined us this year, and so, Christmas lacked a certain sense of people.

This is not to say that Christmas was in any way bad. It most assuredly was not.  It was, in fact, rather nice. I would not pass up this time with my family for anything in the world. However, with only the three of us, it seemed... well, quiet, I suppose.

I am fond of saying that if all you can say about your life is that it is quiet, then you are not in such a bad place overall.  Unquietness can be unpleasant at times.  Drama, and all that.

Balance, I suppose, is the key.

The lack of some people, clearly, was more profound, more pointed, than others. No offense to my uncle or cousin, of course. There are instances, in any given day, but more so now, during the holidays, when one is flooded with memories of those absent. Someone who is in similar situation has begun to describe these pointed moments as twinges, which I quite like as a term to describe the fleeting moments of sharp, sometimes painful memory.  I've full on adopted the term, expanding it even, to include twinge-y (in all fairness, she may have coined this one as well), and twinginess (almost certainly mine).

These moments pass, and they are not all bad. Some have that wonderful bittersweet quality of summer romances, and some are downright pleasant. Of these latter, most revolve around my father, gone these last 6 years, but still very much present.  While these memories certainly constitute twinges, as I recognize that he is not here to share this Christmas with us, I am nevertheless comforted by the memories of him. In particular, the shared memories, and the stories, that pass between my mother, my sister and I, as well as his family, many of whom live here, in the land of his birth.

I spend a better part of the day yesterday shooting skeet (or something very much like skeet, anyway), a pastime my father was very fond of, and that he taught me.  I like to think that he would have been happy for me to do so.  I didn't shoot well, but I enjoyed myself, and that is something he taught me as well.  Twinge-y, yes. Sharp, poignant, yes. Sad? Not so much, Gentle Reader. Not so much.