"Missinia"

When I was growing up in London, Ohio, we had a saying. Though it wasn't unusual to hear interesting turns of phrase like "a herd of turtles" or "bats in the belfry" on a daily basis, there was one saying that stood out above all the others.

This one was an original, born out of the complicated relationship I had with my father after my parents' divorce, and softened by the tender memories we formed together when I was a teenager. The phrase was a combination of two words, or rather, two names: Mine and my sister's. My dad took the first part of my nickname, Missy, and the last part of my sister's name, Virginia, to express the sadness he felt when we were apart for too long.

The turn of phrase
Missinia.
Or "Missin' ya."

It's strange to see that word spelled out tonight, though that is the only term that came to mind when I sat down alone on my couch this evening in front of my brilliant Christmas tree — a freshly cut Scotch Pine. (Matt is catching up on sleep after a late night of studying, and my dog is sprawled across the carpet, her belly turned upward and her paws in the air, in a sleep she only enters into when she is ghastly tired.)

Alone. In front of a beautiful tree, with its lights glowing just inside patio doors that lead out to freshly fallen snow.
I put on some Christmas music to lighten the mood, but still my mind lingers on a turn of phrase that was created for me and my sister more than 15 years ago.

I said goodbye to my dad in 2009, after he struggled with complications from a massive heart attack. At the time, no matter how difficult it was to face, it was clear that he was nearing the end of his life. I mourned him when he passed, though I took comfort in the fact that I had reached out to him during my college years, to mend our relationship and to ease the pain of so much lost time.

But when my 13-year-old twin brothers, my mother and my stepfather left us unexpectedly the following year, I was without words. Our entire extended family was devastated. Almost a year and eight months later, it is still hard to believe they are gone.

Missinia
I miss their hugs. I miss their smiles. And I miss their laughter.

I miss the silly ways we would wake up on Christmas mornings, with blankets strewn everywhere and jumping on the bed. I miss the Cherry Coffeecake we would make for the holidays — a 2-hour recipe that came together long after they went to bed or in the odd hours of the morning to be ready by 7 a.m. I miss the way I would plan their gimmicky gifts all year — a puzzle to solve before they could open the gift, a lot of digging to get to the buried treasure, or one object wrapped to look like another. And I miss the way I kept a mental list of gift ideas all year long, in order to narrow my ideas down to that one perfect package.

In the year before they died, I was so proud of my gifts to the twins that I took a picture of the presents here in Minnesota, before flying to Ohio with the pretty packages.

For Tommy, I used several severed boxes and a ton of electrical tape to create a 3-dimensional trapezoid, with the gift hidden inside. For Lawrence, I worked to compress and roll a shirt so small that it fit into a narrow incense tube. Then I wrapped the present to look like a rose, with shiny red tissue paper creating a bloom atop a green, shirt-disguising stem.

Of great surprise to me — I even miss the day-long hunt for a fresh Christmas tree, and the old, simple ornaments that my parents would make us hang on the tree each year.

It takes time
Deciding what the holidays will look like without my beloved twin brothers and my parents has proven to be a very difficult experience. Most difficult of all— for me at least— is looking upon all the warmth and beauty of Christmas and not having these loved ones near.

I want to be more upbeat and positive on this blog, but the truth is that the holidays are very hard on those who grieve. Our friends and families encourage us to spring back and live life with the same fervor we have in the past, and we fully understand that they only have the best of intentions.

For the heart to heal, though, it takes time. So much time.

I only hope that by expressing these thoughts openly, I might share some encouragement with others who are going through the same thing.

Sometimes it helps to remember:
You are not alone. 

" Someday soon we all will be together, if the fates allow
  Until then, we'll have to muddle through somehow
  So have yourself a Merry Little Christmas now. "