For year-round walkers and parents like myself, the signs of Christmas are writ large and freighted with reflection. The lights of many colours burn through the early morning darkness. The tree-sellers are setting up for a bumper day and festive warmth permeates the air. I walk past the same people and houses most days of the year but this month my thoughts are filled with the past and future rather than the present.
My daily jaunt always starts at the local school. I weave past little kids decked out in Christmas jumpers, holding handcrafted reindeer for their school play, followed by harried parents running after them, juggling work and nativity plays, exhausted already from the pressures of the season.
I see the same teachers that taught my kids racing into class, slightly older with each passing year, dying no doubt for the looming holiday period. Another year almost over, educating those small children, focusing on reading, writing, lessons on life.
I think of the influence of those teachers and their role in that school which is felt so strongly in our neighbourhood. A central hub of sorts creating binding ties and commonalities central to the community. I was so much a part of it all for so many years: daily pickups, Halloween costumes, play dates. Now, in December, the excitement of the kids about all that is ahead is palpable.
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That school life and those I met cemented my place in our suburb, created that familiarity and forged routines with other parents who now have their own standing as friends. It’s where my own kids started off on their confident journeys in life. This month, I pause in my travels and can’t but think of those kids that are no longer here this Christmas lost through illness, tragedies, accidents – school mates of a son, a daughter of friends. I am sure they, too. were so excited for what was ahead. Such tragedy, such loss, such waste made more awful at this festive time.
My walk gains pace, passing the lady I have been seeing for five years now, walking with an umbrella stooped over, rain or shine. In the heat of the summer, she is still tightly wrapped up in a heavy coat and hat and her gaunt appearance and demeanour have worsened considerably each year, always making me fearful that I will not see her again next year. Walking is obviously a Saviour to her. Does Christmas differ anyway for her? Who does she spend it with? We pass each other every morning of the year – I smile at her and say hi – she nods fearfully and walks on.
I walk past the house of my widowed young neighbour, whom I see most mornings drawing her curtains open, looking out at another day without her partner. This month I know she dreads the Christmas lights going up in her house. She appears lonely through the window, and this cheery time must heighten her loss. Another year spent planning presents, making sure Santa comes to her two kids and looking to get past the cheer and out the other side still standing.
I keep walking, thinking of my own family. My mother soon entering her ninth decade and her pals planning Christmas get-togethers, sherries, looking forward or stressed out about rejoining their grown-up children for Christmas. I think of members of my family who are long gone, a father, parents and sisters-in-law. I think of friends we have lost this year. Friends who were mums, other parents who should be with us at this time of year. All with who had so much yet to give. I think of my kids, in a good place right now but who knows about next year?
I keep thinking. I keep walking. I look forward. And for those reflective days in December, I just hope. I hope that this time next year I will still be meeting my walking friend with the gaunt appearance. I am excited to think my widowed neighbour might someday look through the window with some company at her side. I enjoy picturing my mother next year still drinking her sherry, planning her Christmas with me. I hope the parents and families of those children who we lost this year will be able to cope through another one.
I finish my loop back at the school again, hearing innocent voices straining to the heights of Ó Holy Night through windows steaming with heat and enthusiasm. I am nostalgic for times past, sad for those gone and wishing my kids were still young. The excitement at the school still burns high. The lights keep twinkling, I keep walking, I keep thinking and I keep hoping.
