Something I Can't Give Him

This post is for scribbit's March Write Away contest.

If there is one thing I lament about living in the northern tip of Virginia, hidden away between mountains in the Shenandoah Valley, it is the loss of my family. Don't get me wrong, most of them are still alive and doing quite well. The problem is that none of them are here. One of the things I remember fondly about my childhood is the closeness and enormity of my extended family.

Every Christmas Eve we would gather at my grandparents' house (my father's parents)- all of us huddled together over plates of food; meats, sweets, side dishes, meatballs, and cookies that my grandmother and I had made together- all stuff that was made with great affection and brought for the feast. I don't remember exactly what we ate, nor do I remember any gifts I received, other than those that are immortalized in photos of my childhood. What I do remember is the feeling. The feelings of closeness, of warmth, and of love. I remembered all of my father's siblings (a brother and 3 sisters that were still living) adoring their nieces and nephews as if they were their own, even if only on Christmas Eve. Again, I don't remember much about the gifts, but I remember the feeling of belonging and of happiness that permeated the room as we all gathered around the ornately decorated Christmas tree singing songs, telling jokes, and opening gifts together.

Fast-forward to now where Kyle, Jack, and I live 3.5 hours from the nearest relatives, one of which has never even met our son. The family has disbanded, being spread across the country. We live in North Carolina, Virginia, and Maryland; we've migrated to Florida and New Mexico. We're not the same big, happy, close-knit Italian family we once were. No more baking cookies around Christmas and eating as many silver dragees as went on the cookies. No more feasts and carols. Just a fond memory that I will have to try to share with my son.

We try to make new memories with him. We exchange pajamas on Christmas Eve so everyone gets to wear them for pictures and presents on Christmas morning. We try to take him to all of the fun places that I would have loved to go as a kid. We read to him, take family baths, and pretend to be all sorts of animals in the caves we've built of living room furniture and sheets. But the one thing that I can't give to Jack is his family. I can't make the family all move back together and spend every Christmas together. I can't drive 6 hours one way every weekend to have Sunday dinner with the grandparents (pasta, of course!). But, I can ensure that he feels loved by us and has a sense of place and purpose within our tiny family. I can make sure that he gets to see the grandparents a few times a year and talk to them on the phone a few times a week. It's all I have to give, but I will give my best.