I just couldn’t get into the holiday spirit. Dad’s house had sold. It was where the whole gang—me, my three sisters, our husbands and kids—gathered for Valentine’s Day and Christmas and everything in between.
The news hit me hard. Dad had died the year before. I still wasn’t ready to say good-bye. Not to him. Not to the house where we’d celebrated so much.
“What if we had one last get-together at the house before the closing?” I asked my sisters. “Like an early Thanksgiving where we pull out all the stops: cousins, aunts, uncles, everyone?” They loved the idea.
I announced the plan to my husband and kids. Seven-year-old Jack’s eyes grew wide. “We could have Christmas too, Mom. And Easter at Grandpa Rock’s.”
Nine-year-old Mari chimed in. “We can make valentines and wear our Halloween costumes!” Soon we had a name: The All-Holiday Celebration.
A few weeks later, Dad’s home bustled just like old times. The children played Thanksgiving bingo and exchanged valentines. Mermaids and dragons darted behind trees and scavenged the yard, looking for Easter eggs to fill their baskets. We watched Christmas movies and ate strawberry pie to remind us of Fourth of July with Dad.
“Dad would’ve loved this,” I said to my sisters, packing up our things at the end of the day.
As I shut the door one last time, I wiped away my tears. Now I knew. He was there with us. In all of our memories, and in that unforgettable collection of holiday celebrations.
