Deck The Halls With Ham and Morphine

I live in a world where the seasons are color coded. The yards are decorated according to the holiday that falls within the next month. "Everything must be perfect for my baby’s first Christmas, everything must be perfect for my in-laws coming down for the holidays, everything must be perfect for…" I live in a world where the unimportant is all that matters.
My yard lies bare. The grass has turned the appropriate shade of green-brown for the season. The trees hold their naked limbs up high, proud that they aren’t disguised by Christmas lights in the middle of November. They don’t know that they will never be dressed in the sparkling diamonds, however, they will forgive me in the spring. There is no giant Santa Claus standing on my roof, waving at nobody in particular. There isn’t a Christmas tree dripping with my childhood memories and mementos of housewarming parties and gifts I regretted to accept. There are no presents sleeping there, teasing the children of my house. They are all safely tucked away in the stores. All that resides in my house is an uninvited guest.
Death has invited itself into my life. No matter how I have barred the door, I couldn’t keep him at bay. Its breath is fogging up the windows of the ones I love. It blinds us all. It disables our ability to see, our ability to love and be loved. It keeps us walking on glass, tiptoeing around each other’s feelings waiting for someone to explode- leaving bits and pieces scattered on the walls. Death is a curse word in my home. Saying it is like calling his name, beckoning him to take off his shoes and enjoy a nice cup of hot chocolate.
Holidays are all about the food for my family, but a ham doesn’t taste quite as scrumptious when it is seasoned with tears and morphine. It’s all for him- it’s all for Grampa. The fake smiles, the Death- defying attempts at making him happy- and comfortable, they are all for him. It is all because of how much we–how much I love him.
I hope he knows. I hope he knows that my sun rises and sets in his eyes. I hope he knows that I would do anything to keep him a little longer, but we all know that Hospice can only sustain life for so long. I hope he knows how much he means to me. I hope he knows he is the only man I have ever loved. He is my whole heart, and I beg Death for one favor- let him know.
His shell sits on the broken down green recliner facing the television, being stuffed with turkey, glazed ham, freshly fried fish, pecan pie, chocolate cake, toasted leftover sandwiches, glucose, morphine, and anything else that might create in him a sigh of satisfaction. His mind is far away, abandoning the tension filled home. Abandoning the idea of Death.
I live in a world that is slowly loosing color. Our halls are decked with the black drapes of Death. Our hearts don’t lie in pretty wrapped packages nested under an over-decorated tree. Our hearts sit on the edge of their seats awaiting the inevitable. I hope he knows I love him.