Christmas Eve

This Christmas Eve, I sit at my desk in the dining room of the house where we raised our sons, Eric and Mark. It’s the same home where we welcomed our godchildren and grandchildren.

The silence feels vast. It’s as if the house itself is holding its breath, waiting for the familiar chaos that once filled these walls. Max, our Springer Spaniel–Black Lab mix, would be lying at my feet if he weren’t chasing his tail—or wrestling with one of my sons—in some memory long past.

Outside, last night’s snow muffles the world. The stillness is so complete I can almost hear my own heartbeat.

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Norma and her helper, Mark, would decorate the house. Candles glowed in our living-room windows, and a tree stood in one corner or another, its spot changing with every new arrangement of furniture.

Norma sang along to Christmas music while Mark and I carried the ornaments and decorations up from the basement. My hands grew dusty from the cardboard boxes. Once the heavy lifting was done, I’d step back and let them work their magic.

Norma loved to add her special touches—the ones that made everything feel just right. When they finished, I, being taller than both, would place the angel on top of the tree.

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On Christmas Eve, we’d bundle up and pile into our Ford Taurus station wagon. We’d drive through neighborhoods glowing with lights—trees, roofs, and yards strung with color. Mangers stood beside Wise Men, and Santa’s sled always had Rudolph leading the team.

Then we’d head home for hot chocolate, new pajamas, and one present before bed.

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Now, the house is different. No holiday or milestone resembles those early years, surrounded by love, laughter, and the steady hum of family life.

The echoes of those days live in my mind. They fill the quiet with warmth—and with an ache that lingers long after the snow melts.

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I think of our beginnings, less than a mile from here. Norma and I met as a mismatched pair, but somehow love found us anyway.

Birthdays and holidays were always spent with family. Her parents, Albert and Kathy, hosted in those early years, before we had Eric. When he came along, they visited us instead—bringing their laughter and stories.

My mother and stepfather, Santo, invited us to stay at their house in Smithtown. I remember the rare nights they babysat Eric so Norma and I could escape to Hampton Bays.

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Years later, my grandmother, Anna—Bubbie—held Mark on her lap at my mother’s house. The image is still vivid. I can almost reach out and touch it: her smile, Mark’s tiny hands gripping her sweater, the scent of kugel baking in the kitchen.

Moments frozen in time. Moments that feel both close and impossibly far away.

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Now, as I sit in this stillness surrounded by memories, I wonder what comes next.

The quiet can be comforting, like the snow outside. But at times it feels heavy, pressing down on my chest.

Beside me lies a brochure for a retreat called Becoming. A curious title—one that whispers promises of renewal and rediscovery.

I’m not sure I’m ready. But perhaps it’s time to step into something new, to carry these memories forward, and find out who I am in this next chapter of life.