Last year, I had talked my mother’s doctors into letting us make the six hour trip to Mountain City to spend Christmas at home. We were required to spend 100 days in Nashville near the hospital, and Christmas day fell on Day 85 or so: enough time had passed that they knew the stem cells had engrafted, and her condition was stable enough that we were bored. They would not give us the green light to leave until all her bloodwork came back the day of, and we when they begrudgingly said everything was clear, we immediately hit the road; a windstorm was coming, which ultimately killed several people in West Tennessee. We took our tiny Christmas tree, ornaments and all, and headed east.

My mother wanted to stop at her favorite grocery store on the way home, and we picked up some provisions. I expected that we would eat Christmas dinner, so we only picked up a few things. After all, we only had about three days leave from Nashville.

As it turned out, one of my family members had the flu, so my mother and I had to stay quarantined; a major disappointment, but beyond anyone’s control. The nature of leukemia and stem cell transplants puts you at the mercy of diseases and bugs unfolding around you. I was always afraid that I would transport some virus or bacteria to my mother inadvertently; this is especially a concern with things like whooping cough, which can live on your clothes for hours.

Since we could not go to the main Christmas dinner, I pulled together what I could from the scant provisions that we had bought on the way home on Christmas Eve. I remember a tiny ham, and a plate of pickles: I thought the pickles looked nice on a little red plate we had.

We opened presents after that; I had one thing for her, and she gave me two things.

And that was Christmas.

In all honesty, I have tried hard this Christmas not to reflect too much on what was. Christmastime is a moment of hope in the Christian calendar; leukemia dashed our hopes. This time last year, she was getting better, quickly. Last year, she was making a strong recovery.  Now? I was brave enough to go to the same places that she and I used to shop, but I broke down when I was trimming the tree.

My little home town has had the strange climate changed weather that seems almost springlike, but somewhat crisp. The landscape has the bleak feel that these Appalachian Mountains get after the leaves have fallen. The stress of graduate school and the end of the semester means that there is little time to think about the holidays before they are upon you; in my case, this year, a mercy. I have no parents to go home to, though I have visited their graves, and I have no children to become the center of attention.  I have friends and extended family, but this place has been changed: my family lives only in my memory.

Mountain City seems to lack the Christmas spirit, though I am sure that most of that is my perception. Still, I have a sense that the economy isn’t good; nothing feels lively. When I went shopping in North Carolina, I was stunned that I could find good parking places only a couple of days before Christmas. There were exceptionally good deals in some stores, yet it seemed like there were few takers. In Wal-Mart, I saw a man hold up a toy and ask in disbelief, “They want $25 for this?” and if you stop and think, that is more than two hours’ labor for many people. I stopped in a restaurant my mother and grandmother took me into since I was

I stopped in a restaurant my mother and grandmother took me into since I was knee high to a duck, as we say around here. The waitstaff were having a holiday get together in the bar area; a couple of tables had customers. The whole place seemed very subdued, even for a normal day in Boone. That being said, there were a number of people strolling down King Street, and Mast General Store was packed. To be blunt, it felt like a recession. Deep discounts, but only certain stores were bustling.

If my mother was still living, these are the sort of details we would have remarked on.

We would have looked out at the fog that has set down on us, obscuring town from the vantage point of town. We would have remarked that the cat has shown no interest in the Christmas tree, and recalled the tabby cat who turned over the Christmas tree years ago.  I would have told the story about my father, sick and beset with osteoporosis accidentally sitting on an old arthritic tom cat who had curled up on a cushion the same color as his fur near the Christmas tree one year (the cat squirmed and my father stood up; the cat was fine). And what else? Among other things, that is what loss leaves you with: the “what-if” question “and what else?”

Perhaps she would have seen something I didn’t and we would have been laughing over that; perhaps she would have just been watching televangelists, driving me crazy.

Perhaps, but who knows? There would have been some unknowable something else.