My family had one plastic tree for twenty or more Christmases. It was a well-constructed one, a bare metal trunk with two or three hoops to hook in each individual branch around the tree. It actually came with an instruction manual. Our Christmas tree and boxes of ornaments occupied several boxes in the basement; the annual production of “putting up the tree” was my introduction to grown-ups without the memory skills to recall from one year to the next the locations of things they put away in the same box in the same place every year. And now I am that grown-up.

The only part of the decoration process that I ever relaxed and enjoyed was the practice of throwing tinsel everywhere—on the tree and near the tree—and the tradition of placing the angel on top. (That is an unsung rite of passage, the moment the family notices one is tall enough to top the tree with a star or angel.)

One of my family’s angels was a seraph whose robe was a cardboard skirt with one staple to hold it in a fluted tube shape and with glued-on glitter that had started to peel off and thin, stringy blonde hair, like a combover. Its halo was glitter glued in a circle on that hair, as well; it was not even on a wire that held it above her head. It was a broken angel. But you see it was our angel, the one my sister and I thought of as ours for some reason, and when nicer, more expensive-looking, gilded angels with a halo on a wire found their way into our house, they were always relegated to lower branches. Our comb over angel always sat on top.

My family’s philosophy that one always roots for the underdog extended to angels.

That perspective may be the best, the longest lasting, gift I received from my family.

I have so many fond memories of my brother Johnny who passed from Covid in mid April 2020. My favorite was making an Advent Christmas Wreath with our parents and grandmother. Johnny and I would gather evergreen branches and pine cones and our parents would supply the four candles, ribbons, and little Christmas ornaments. We would light one candle every week on Sundays before Christmas until all the candles were lit. This was an annual tradition. The wreath with its four candles represented hope, peace, joy and love, and eternal life.

On the last Sunday in Advent our family would light the last candle, sing Christmas carols, and read Christmas stories together. Johnny had the most beautiful voice that I can still hear today. My grandmother would bake a stollen as well as freshly baked German Spice cookies that we all enjoyed. Each candle of the wreath represented bringing light into this world.

I terribly miss the light my brother brought into my world. I will miss him forever. I wish him eternal peace.

Thirty-eight years of the largest Christmas tree, more arguments that it wouldn’t fit, needed two people to carry it, not enough lights and I was always right — but the tree was the most important part of Mike’s Christmas holiday. Our tree was memorable and we had to keep it up till January 6th, dead and all. Everyone came to see Mike’s Christmas tree. How I miss these memories. Just not the same.

My father always loved the Macy’s Thanksgiving parade and now I have tears in my eyes every year when it starts. He’d wander through the kitchen taking small bites of food to “help check” how things were going but stayed away from the cooking because he burnt everything he touched.

We grew up very poor but every year the holidays were a huge blowout because he’d saved a little from each paycheck to be certain we had a big Christmas morning, even though it meant giving up things he needed during the year. Every year I’d search for the best dad gift — he had a great sense of humor so I worked hard to find a funny one.

Now I walk through the stores and see the “perfect dad gift” and realize I don’t have anyone to give it to. My holiday spirit is gone now, I have to keep up the traditions and put on a happy face but all I want is for the holidays to be over and done without him.

This was Mike’s holiday. He loves the food, didn’t mind the traffic driving to Long Island, couldn’t wait for pumpkin pie. Covid, you cruel thief. You took away so much from me.