Lacking love

It always bothered me that her mantel was important to her; the decorating of it was as predictable as the seasons, just less joyful. You could hear her creative gears shift when September skies began to dim well before dinner was served. Bedroom windows were always cracked at night for optimum sleep. And the preparation for the many-months-of-mantel-extravaganza would begin. She would say to dad, “It’s time to bring in the Halloween bins.”

Mom would spend the better part of a day unveiling and placing each Halloween piece, delighted that our living room would remain ominous until November...eerily engulfed in red hues of flickering light. While I could appreciate the effort, I was not allowed to touch anything. Sure, that’s hard for a young kid, but it’s even more painful as a young adult. So much so that I refuse to buy or rent a place with a mantel. At one point, my mother said, “when we are ready to downsize I plan to dress each seasonal mantel and sell it, in full, to the highest bidder” because the idea of splitting things up would “kill her”. God forbid, her kids would get any of her valued pieces or shared memories. God forbid we would end up like her...in love with a flat piece of wood that holds you and your stuff up from season to season...joyfully filled with everything but love.