It has been a hard Christmas. My partner and I went to my Sister's for the day; my Mum and Dad, Uncle (yes a strange one as tradition requires), my two nephews and my Sister's partner.
The meal was sumptuous; ginger-bread stuffing, a revelation! Heaven when eaten with stuffed leg of turkey and my partners Port and chestnut sprouts. We talked about cooking, food, tradition and family. My partner lost his Mum and my Sister's partner lost hers this year. Each time I looked to one of the chairs around the table I expected Joan to be sitting there smiling and tucking away a huge plate of food; her gaze straying to the dessert.
Then as we relayed out into the bright sunlight on the decking outside, for some to enjoy a cigarette and others fresh air, I expected to see Mo standing there in her red blouse, the one with a Chinese style collar, flashing Christmas badge on her breast, trim leg trousers she loved and smart shoes with the buckles, smoking, smiling and laughing.
I felt that we were gathered more closely. Two of the three centres of our respective families gone. We are gravitating into my parents, the Universe resetting itself, as naturally as water flooding or tide falling.
We pulled crackers, laughing at the jokes, ate a full feast, talked of those elsewhere and drank good wine. We went round the table listing what our gifts were; prompting each other with mock offence when a speaker forgot a stocking filler here or a joke present there. We exchanged gifts, watching the nephews, one 22 and the other 10, getting excited at a bottle of good whisky, DVDs and a full Lego collection - the Police Station series - respectively.
The crowning moment was the simplest gift of all. A tasteful wooden frame, wrapped in tissue paper and passed to my parents. My Mum unwrapped a picture of herself, my Dad and the Angelic Joan smiling out on a shared holiday. The tears flowed from my Mum, without sobbing, her chin crumpled up, eyes reddened and she took the tissue from me that I had carried for this very moment. When she handed the frame to my Dad he smiled, water pricking his eyes and fought himself every inch of the way. I handed him a tissue, he took it without looking up. When I drove them home later Mum commented she was the only one who cried and my Dad agreed; pride and amnesia being his refuge, despite all the tears shed, unashamedly, so recently at funerals.
My partner sat for hours with the two nephews building Police cars, motorbikes, vans and finally the station itself. The adults chatted, smoked, drank and remembered. I felt like I had reached the age where I was a spectator; unable to actually enjoy and live in the moment. I could watch over them and enjoy the pleasure of others, more innocent maybe. Of course, it might have something to do with the control freak in me - the fact that through all the pleasure and excitement I was the only one who carried tissues, knowing that tears would flow and guessing where they would be shed.
My parents safely driven home; Dad's pain endurance taken to his limit so Mum could enjoy a few vodkas and the relaxing atmosphere; her knowing that we were all keeping an eye on him. I return to find my partner still building and playing with my nephews. On the television there is a home movie playing a previous New Years Eve party - the theme being Musicals - there is Les Mis characters floating past the camera, followed by three Pink Ladies from Grease and on and on. The camera swings around to a curly haired mother superior sitting on a chair, a huge crucifix hanging from her neck and a novice Nun sitting at her feet. It was Joan, smiling as always, supported and surrounded by her mad, singing and daft family; they urged her to start singing but after the first verse they all joined in with "How do you solve a problem like Maria". She giggled, laughed and beamed through the song, her round face glowing in happiness and pride. We all watched and at the end my nephew waved at his Grandmother.
The next disc was my Sister's fortieth celebration. Groups drank, sang and laughed in the shadows and pools of light; people waved when challenged by the camera, poked their tongues out and generally played the fool - it was a great night.
Then there in the dark a huddle of four figures around a central table, light bouncing of half full glasses. My parents, conspiratorially leaning over their drinks, were deep in conversation, sharing secrets and laughter with Joan and my partner's Mum, the Mighty Mo. The camera swept past, moving to catch everyone in the room. It was a glimpse of Mo's profile, her eyes gleaming with mischief and the silhouette of her hair, greying but a luxurious mane which swept back from her face and curled to a stop at the nape of her neck. I gasped and covered my mouth with my hand, swallowing hard. My partner called out "there's the Mrs Woman, My little Mommy Bear" his affectionate name for her. It was Christmas Day and we had seen Joan and Mo despite everything.
It was magic. Echoes of happier times. Dressed up, together in laughter and smiles, with celebration and love tangible in the air.
At home later I sat alone in the dark watching the news; the tree lights making the room twinkle while the awfulness washed over me. My partner in bed, a nightcap easing him into sleep. I was sober and thinking. Not a good state to be in when you are an insomniac.
Both women had their own versions of faith. To think of them standing at the bar, with the others we have lost this year comforts me, blasphemously being served their favourite tipple by a bearded youth. But I think that they believed that we are the Angels here. Sometimes we stretch our wings, lift our faces and fly, even for a few moments; we smile at someone and help to lift a great burden, reassure a stranger of a hinted at insecurity enough to sway them back to laughter or stop to watch someone safely make their way to sanctuary, down some steps or through a doorway, curling wings around them just in case they fall.
We should see every old lady as our Grandmother, each Woman as our Mum, every human being as someone to protect, help and gift. So naive in this dark and sinister world! Thoughtfulness and living in the moment would allow us time to see this; to regard each person we see as someone we care for.
That old cliché of "how would I like someone to act if that was my Mum who had fallen" means a lot - we all know what we would expect and want. Maybe that's how people like Joan and Mo see Angels and live in the moment.
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