A little over a year ago, my dad called me while I was out with friends and tilted my world on its axis. Mama Knascar had cancer. Oh, they didn't know entirely what was going on – how advanced it was, which cells it was destroying, what the prognosis was.
We didn't know we'd have less than two months with her.
As I am wont to do, I'm exceptionally good at burying my head in the sand and ignoring things I don't want to confront, but as this time of year has descended upon me, I've had trouble keeping my feelings at bay. I'm not entirely sure I'm meant to.
See, the time between Thanksgiving and Christmas was my mother's time of year. She loved planning what presents she was going to get for people all year long. She baked cookies for all branches of the family and drove my father crazy with decorations. Those kitschy aisles in Michael's made her ecstatic, and I picked up my unpleasant habit of singing along with Christmas carols under my breath while in public from her.
The next couple of months are going to be hell, pure and simple. I don't think I realized quite how much until now. The plan is to go home for Thanksgiving with my dad and grandmother – I really need to get on with ticket searching. Papa Knascar and I are thinking about heading to Savannah for Christmas though. Neither of us really wants to be in Columbi for that time of the year.