"Imagine if you and Dad died at the exact same time," Olive says to me from the back seat. I'm not sure how our conversation led here, to the topic of death, and namely Olive imagining her Mom and Dad perishing in unison. But here we are.
"I hope we do. I hope we die of old age in each others' arms," I say. "I wouldn't want to live without your Dad and I don't think he would want to live without me."
The kids and I are driving down 4th Avenue, through the Harbor, on our way to the Christmas Craft Fair, for the second time today to try and see Santa and Mrs. Claus, one of mythology's timeless couples.
The sky can't decide whether to rain or snow and waivers between the two. Slush puddles abound. The beauty of this place is lost behind a shield of grey.
There is something else I need to say: "I would keep living if your Dad died though. And he would keep living if I died. But we'd both be really miss each other."
Olive has yet to experience the death of someone close to her; thus she can talk about her parents dying with ease. Without the angst of knowing grief, without boulders on her chest.
"But maybe you would come back as a baby," Olive says.
My daughter has long been a believer in reincarnation, a spiritual belief she came to on her own, that I have neither denied or confirmed, because well, I have yet to die and discover what lays beyond.
"Its possible," I say.
"Mom, what if you came back as MY baby!" So says daughter to mother--imagining mother as daughter.
Oh the fun I would have-- this brings the payback of being a grandparent to a whole different level!
"Well, I hope to still be alive when you have babies so I can meet them."
"Well, what if I had babies when you were alive but then had another one when you died."
I don't tell Olive I hope to live long beyond her pregnancy years, even if I started on the later side of my range, instead I say: "And what if you were sad about your Mom dying and you named your new baby Christy after me."
I look in the rearview mirror, as Olive smiles back at me, our eyes a reflection of each others' and echoes of Olive's grandmother, my mother Susan's, deep brown orbs.
We pull into the railroad terminal and Olive runs and slides on the ice as Elias and I carefully shuffle towards the building. As we walk in the door, we see Santa and Mrs Claus, arm in arm, on their way out of the craft fair.
Olive doesn't even pout. Elias didn't care to meet them anyways. "I don't want a picture with Santa, " he said before we left the cabin.
"Thats cool," I responded, as at thirteen and slightly echolaic, I'm still amazed he hasn't heard anyone at school or the teen center dispel Santa's myth and repeated the words to his sister.
They both believe.
They both look for our resident Elf, Larl, in the mornings--though Elias only finds him if he's up first and then only if Larl's hanging out in an obvious spot-- and it still works for Nick and I to nudge our kids into action with the words: "Remember Larl is watching!"
I feel like, with both kids, we stand on the cusp of Christmas magic. And if I could, I'd allow them to go on believing in a jolly red-suited man who delivers gifts on the eve of the 25th forever. To believe in the Tooth Fairy and the Easter Bunny and in reincarnation and to be able to lightly discuss the death of parents without a fractured soul.
I would harness their innocence and fly my own sail along with theirs.
We might have missed the opportunity for a picture with Santa Claus, but we arrive in time to listen to the local band that plays familiar Christmas songs as the kids and I check out the various booths. Olive and I sneak away from Elias, when he is engaged in a conversation with an adult I trust, to purchase a sign that says "Don't go bacon my heart", with a picture of a pig. Olive's gift to her big brother.
Please don't break her heart Elias. Its been injured by your autism, by your big brother antagonism and neglect, but my is it mighty.
And Olive, sweet Olive, protect your brother's as well-- stand by him when others won't, be patient and kind, become an advocate, some day you may only have each other.
And yes, if I have my way, that will be a long long time from today, with your Dad and I intertwined and ready to let go...
"I know this song," Elias says as we put our coats on to go back outside under the slate sky.
"Me too," Olive and I say in unison.
Once we are buckled into our respective seats, I start singing, out of tune as always: "We wish you a Merry Christmas, we wish you a Merry Christmas...."
Elias and Olive sing with me, in their own unique voices, as we roll towards home, towards Nick and the dogs, our quirky family of six, as we make our own Christmas magic, the kind that lasts regardless of beliefs, the type of magic that sustains our shattered hearts in times of grief, and with the string of ordinary moments, slowly stitches our souls anew.
Photo taken last year at Christmas--look they are holding hands!
And this picture even came AFTER this one:
Pure Christmas magic, I tell ya.
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