Flickers of Joy
On Keeping the Magic Alive Anyway
I’m the keeper of the Christmas tree. Every morning I plug it in. Every night I unplug it after I get everyone settled into bed. It’s probably more for me than anyone else. A small effort to keep something alive in the middle of all this. A flicker of joy. A reminder that beauty still matters.
For months, my mom’s been saying she wanted to repaint the wooden Christmas sign we found at a thrift store. One of those old ones that sticks in the ground. I bought the paint. Then months went by. Every time I asked if she was up for it, she said no. Too tired. Not today. Maybe later.
Recently, I asked again and she was ready.
I set everything up. Newsprint to protect the table. Paint and brushes. Water and paper towels. I put an old shirt over top of her nightgown so she doesn’t get paint on it. She sat down in her wheelchair and said she didn’t want it to be a Christmas sign anymore. She wanted to turn the snowman into something for spring since Christmas is almost over. She’s thinking ahead.
I nod, but part of me wonders if she’ll even make it to spring.
We covered everything in white and started painting over it. She chose bright colors like pink, orange, and blue. It looks like a snowman dressed for Easter.
She lost steam halfway through. Said she needed a break. Her back was hurting. But I could also see her deflate. I picked up some fake flowers from Goodwill to glue onto the hat later, when she’s ready again.
If she’s ready again.
It’s strange to watch someone try to make something when their mind and body don’t seem to know each other anymore. She could still see it clearly in her head, but couldn’t bring it to life. Not without help. And even then, not the way she imagined.
She’s disappearing. Her sentences collapse before they reach the end. Her words get knotted up and float off. I have to sit there and reconstruct what she might’ve meant.
In a rare moment of clarity, she looked at me and said, “I can’t get my words out anymore.” She said she forgets what she’s saying while she’s saying it. I’ve been aware of it for a while. But hearing her say it closed the gap between what I see and what she knows, and I was grateful for her acknowledgment. She’s not one to acknowledge difficult things like that. I felt proud of her. It took courage.
My world has gotten smaller. There are long stretches where it’s just me, them, and the slow churn of decline. I forget to respond to texts. Forget to eat except in the middle of the night when my mom has me up and I raid the fridge looking for comfort. Days blur. Everything outside this house feels irrelevant or inaccessible. There’s no language for what this is unless you’ve been in it. This insular little universe of caretaking. Time doesn’t seem to pass.
I still haven’t made a single friend here.
Today we made cookies. I set up a little workstation in front of her wheelchair. I gave her the parts I knew she could still manage. She shaped the dough. Pushed the chocolate pieces into the center. She was focused. Determined. The whole time I felt like something inside me was giving out.
Right now she’s slumped over on the couch. Head on a pillow. Her body’s twisted in a way that looks uncomfortable but she doesn’t seem to notice. She’s out. Or somewhere else. I can’t tell anymore.
I’m so tired.
My dad’s fading too, but it’s slower. I had him fix a pot lid. The knob had come off and the bolt wouldn’t stay. We tried glue but it didn’t hold. He went out to the shed, found a bigger bolt, but it was too long. He spent two hours with a hacksaw, cutting it to size. His hands were steady. When it finally fit, he held it up with a kid like pride.
I hit the applause button.
I keep wondering what all of this is going to become. If I’ll remember it clearly, if these little moments are going to mean something, or if it’ll blur like everything else.
There’s no resolution here. Just a lot of doing and trying and cleaning up and starting again. At this point, all that’s left is the act of being present. Even when the moment is empty or difficult. Even when I want to throw in the towel and walk away from it.
Still, I believe that kindness and presence and joy matter more than anything that pulls me away from it.
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Lakshmi & Dharma
A sacred beginning for the year ahead
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