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Each year as the Christmas ornaments come out, I have a "memory festival."

The biggest jolt comes when the gaudy, spangled, sloppily-painted plaster blobs are unveiled. The childlike painting and the enormous black eyes and mouths of the carolers, skaters and snowballers bring a tear to my eye.

They don't bring fond thoughts of my little ones: These Christmas revelers were painted by my engineer husband, Howard, as he sank into dementia.

I remember my annoyance at my new couch becoming covered with glue, paint and glitter; my frustration with the constant repetition of the same questions. The decrepit winter scene he created and the destruction it produced did not bring happy memories.

But the years have gone by and the winter scene is aging well. In fact, it looks better every year. It has progressed from a place in the background to a place of honor.

I recognize my own aging and forgetfulness and have become more compassionate and a bit more patient. I look at the ornaments and now fully understand the fight to remember and the dreadful struggle to maintain dignity.

The Christmas scene produced so painfully by my husband is a thing of beauty. It represents the joy of Christmas and memories of happy times. I've let go of the negative and embraced the positive.

After all, we'll meet again...and I want Howard to know I finally recognize a labor of love.

(Mary McKee Mertz lives in Clifton Park and is a parishioner at St. Mary's Church in Crescent.)

(12/23/10)[[In-content Ad]]

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