Blue lights twinkle between plastic blue and silver baubles.  Filmy ribbon snakes through the fake spruce branches.  The rythmic blinking is hard to look away from, inducing a tranquil hypnosis that for me means Christmas.  This is no time for admiring, though.  There is too much to nitpick, from the blue that is shades too dark blending into tree, to the poor lighting obscuring the excruciating detail (exscrutiating because it took the entire day to complete).  Trees shouldn’t take this long.

The lighting can be fixed.  The chair screeches across the lineoleum under the kitchen light fixture.  I step onto it, a very naked Cadence calling after me.

“Mommy, what are you doing?”

“I’m fixing the light.”

“But why?”  She’s all about the explanations these days.

“Because it’s broken.”

“Why?”

“Because they get old and they stop working.”

“Oh.”

She doesn’t understand, the confusion just adding to her curiosity.  Her short blond hair cascades over her shoulder blades, her neck curving at an uncomfortable angle to watch my hands twist various pieces.

On my tiptoes, I tackle the circular glass fixture.  I twist the last doohicky cradling the fixture in my left palm.  My balance is not good, wobbling.  My teeth clamp onto my lip with the effort.  I picture the fall, the glass spilling out of my hands, my legs flailing from the chair, trying to land upright, Cadence picking through broken glass.

This was a bad idea.  Keep it together.  I hold my breath until the fixture is on the table.  I replace the old bulbs, and decide I’ll leave the fixture replacement to someone a little taller.  Jake.

Light drenches the kitchen, flooding into the living room.  How have we lived this long without it?  The tree improves very little with the extra light.  I holler for Jake as I dig through the coat closet for an old lamp.  It’s extra light also fails to improve the tree.

Jake emerges from his basement cave.  He steps onto the chair and attaches the fixture with reaching room to spare.  We gather by the tree.

“It looks pretty good.”

“Really?”

My eyes get lost in the blinking lights, awed by the compliment.  It means something coming from Jake, who never compliments lightly.  It’s good enough for this year, I conclude.  I begin a list of possibilities for next year: purple ornaments and a pastel purple ribbon with the blue (although, that might be pushing the limit for Jake), baby blue ornaments, or the more traditional red and gold.

Cadence pounds on the piano keyboard, pretending to play a song from My Christmas book.  I love Christmas.

I tuck the toy skeleton under my arm, where it should be less noticeable. Cadence dug it out of my purse during the service. It had been buried there since Halloween. Hana soon made it her drop toy. She’d handle it, suck on it, drop it, lean over and watch it until someone returned it to her, and repeat the process. My uneasiness lights the skeleton up with blazing search lights, pointing out to everyone gathered around just how inappropriate it is here, at the cemetery. But of course, they don’t notice it, they’re too busy mourning.

In the center of our circle is a pine box casket, draped with the American flag. Inside that box is the wasted body of a man I barely knew. His cheeks have hollowed, the last year robbing them of their characteristic fullness. Surrounding the box are people I don’t know. Some that share my same dark eyes, some that have similar high cheekbones.

I arrived at the funeral home before the casket was closed. Tears were shed, hugs were shared as I looked on with little emotion. The grieving widow said a last good bye with a kiss on the dead man’s lips.

It’s hard to mourn for someone you didn’t know.

During the service the pianist raced through a slow and touching song with a cheerful disregard for timing. The audience floundered over the verses, the song mutilated into an indecipherable mess. I’d struggled not to laugh. My younger brother’s censuring glances helped, but smiles flickered across my face, nonetheless.

Family described my grandfather as a hardworking, loving man. Few hinted at his volatile temper and mistreatment of certain family members.

I wonder if he ever thought about the darker things he did, if he saw any fault in his actions. At first I’m uncertain, like the first few minutes of applause when only a few people clap. There’s a moment of build up, and then the audience applauds as a riotous whole. Just like that, I’m convinced. There’s nothing he regretted more. Like any of us, he regretted his worst mistakes.

Eulogists mentioned stories of his childhood: the medicine man, life on the reservation. I’d never heard these stories. Further down my pew, my dry-eyed dad and uncle listened with a mixture of curiosity and apathy. They’d missed out on their father’s tales too.

In the cemetery, I clasp my hand over my heart as the flag is folded to Amazing Grace. A trumpet plays the solemn melody of Taps, and seven senior citizens fire their guns, one aiming prematurely. The skeleton is pinned under my arm, a symbol of what lies beneath each headstone, a symbol of what we have to look forward to, and a symbol of what we must remember…

Mistakes are best remedied when the heart is still beating.