Che’s explaining why she’s not going to ride with Mom to get Pizza because that’s what we do on Friday nights at our house.
Pausing in the doorway, Sarah smiles.
“She’s with her old man till the end,” I grin.
Che burrows her head in my chest, snuggling on the sofa, watching television after a full day of playing with her friends at school and here. They’ve all just left and now it’s just us for the evening.
Life is mostly just us now.
There’s little energy for anything else.
Living with cancer sucks the energy out of Sarah and Che every bit as it does me.
Che and I set the table while Sarah’s gone. Lighting a candle we opt for a romantic evening.
“AH-REX-AH,” Che yells in the soft glow of the Living Room,” “PRAY CHRISTMAS
MUSIC!”
“Here’s a station you might like,” suggests the feminine automated voice as Karen Carpenter rises from the grave.
“Merry Christmas Darling” fills the room with lights dancing on the walls.
Che grins, dancing in place, and we’re proud because supper together should always be the most joyful of the day.
Sarah smiles and we dive in.
“Mom! Aren’t you going to ask me what I did at school today?”
With a mouth full of her first bite, Sarah asks, “What did you do at school today?”
Fifteen minutes later, I watch the two of them making Christmas presents for Che’s teachers as leftovers are pushed to the side.
Christmas carols softly play.
Candlelight dances.
The girls make gifts.
Soon we learn if the Chemo is working. It’s tough making plans for every conceivable result. Since cancer’s hostile takeover of our lives 2 years ago, all the news has been bad. We’re conditioned to believe it’s not going to be any different this time.
I solemnly sit watching, soaking it all in, trying to remember each sight, scent, feeling, taste, touch, caress and moment of joy.
“Christmas time is coming” Emmylou Harris warns over Alexa, breaking the Holy moment into a thousand pieces.
Sarah smiles, catches my eye and without words we share a thousand things.
“What do you want for Christmas?” she asks.
“Everything!” Che gleefully exclaims.
“Me too,” I agree, as we clean the dishes and get our daughter ready for her bath.
