1/26/2014 On December 5th, 2013, The last thing I expected was to I find myself in a women's shelter. Spending Christmas away from home was the last thing that I wanted. It was out of my hands however. Out of blue, my husband's brain pieced together several past events as if they all had taken place that morning, then screamed in terror at me to move out. I had hoped to talk to someone first, get him help, but when I came back home from speaking to a therapist, it was snowing, he was gone, and my key didn't fit a single lock. The last image I had of my home was the Christmas lights twinkling on our decorated tree in the front window. This event all took place at a time that I was already suffering great loss in my life. My mother had died that week. My brother a few months before that. I truly needed my husband to be there for me, but the strain on his brain was too much. After entering the shelter, some distance away from my community, I tried phoning a mutual friend, seeking some old sage wisdom. I felt so sad, grief-stricken, and lonely, anticipating being alone at Christmas in the shelter. The staff threw a Christmas party at the shelter for themselves. The few residents planned to be with their family and friends Christmas Eve and Day. I grieved for all I knew, not just those who'd died, but my community, my husband, and my home. I even miss my little dog that had died shortly after Christmas the year before. That friend I mention in this poem didn't understand what I meant, when I spoke of wanting Christmas. I hope this poem explains it better.
