By Annette Condon

Temperatures reached minus 15 that Christmas. I was trudging up the hill to visit my mother in the nursing home. We had planned to bring her home for Christmas Day but given the treacherous weather, we decided she was safer staying put. The roads were so icy, I was forced to abandon the car and struggle through on foot, carrying my bag of presents.

I paused to take in the view. Below, the fields held up their hedges in sacrifice and surrendered to the dizzy snow, while off in the distance, the Galtees loomed like a set of ghostly brides. When my mother saw me, her face lit up. Presents were unwrapped and a cup of tea and a chat later, she was nodding off. Inside, all was quiet. The clock ticked down Christmas Day.

My mother’s red shawl caught my eye. The words embroidered on the shawl, read Home Sweet Home along with a picture of a happy, little house with smoke billowing out the chimney. I thought then of home and Christmases past. Daddy telling me, every branch of the tree needed an ornament as otherwise they might get lonely and feel left out. Mammy washing the kitchen floor on Christmas Eve, her last job of the day, the house sparkling, the presents tucked under the tree, the turkey stuffed, the trifle standing to attention in the fridge, the ham hissing in the pot, and the radio playing Christmas songs. Daddy hoisting me up for a cuddle, giving me updates on Santa’s journey from the North Pole; neighbours calling for the Christmas visit and Mammy hushing me off to bed.

The very air seemed thick and heavy with expectation.

When I was a little older, I went to Midnight Mass. I loved the novelty of walking down the middle of the road in the middle of the night under the stars with the frost crunching under our feet and the warm sense of love in the cold air; people spilling out from the pubs, singing carols; everyone in their Christmas best; the moon shining through the Church window; candles burning on the graves, lighting up the night.
Emigrants absent all year now back in the bosom of their families. The greetings rang out, “Happy Christmas! Many happy returns.”

Afterwards home to the heat of the Aga, where the ham was taken out of the pot, sandwiches cut and presents exchanged.

My mother raising a glass of sherry, blessing us all with holy water and saying, “Go mbeirimíd beo ar an am seo arís le cúnamh Dé. May we be alive next year with the help of God.” And, then to bed to secretly read my new annuals by torch-light. Later still, as a teenager getting a special pass to attend the disco. And then, the Christmas that changed everything when Daddy died suddenly one morning in December.

That year, none of us could bear to put up the tree or hear carols. I remember we did not want to go into the New Year without him.
Years later, Mammy told me she only gave herself permission to cry when we were all safely asleep.

The bell rang for the evening meal and returned me to the present. Later, I helped undress my mother and prepare her for bed. Snuggled down with a hot water bottle, she smiled and grasped my hand, “Annie, I love you. I know you sacrificed your Christmas to be with me.
“When God calls me, I want you to know that you will be the last thought on my mind and the last name on my lips.” She said this not as a great proclamation but quietly, as if she was speaking to herself.

My mother’s hot words of love rained down upon me. I felt their power reach my soul, blessing and anointing me. “Mammy, I love you too. May we all be alive this time next year with the help of God.”
My mother smiled at the familiar words, caught my hand and held it to her cheek. I bent down and tucked the shawl in tighter as if to protect her. When she was settled, I went home to my husband.

My mother died suddenly, three months later, days before her birthday, when the flowers were coming back to life. She suffered a brain haemorrhage and was on life-support in a coma for twenty-four hours. Although the doctors said that my mother could not hear me, she tried to lift her head from the pillow and I saw her lips move as if to say something. I was with her, holding her hand as she passed from this world to the next.

While I could not hear the words, in my heart, I know that she fulfilled her Christmas promise.

Read lots of Christmas memories of old Ireland in this year’s Christmas Annual