When the Season Turns Heavy

It’s mid-November, and with December drawing near, I can feel something shift in the air, a quiet heaviness that I can’t quite shake. The world is getting brighter and busier around me, Christmas lights in shop windows, songs playing in the background but all I can feel is the weight of what’s missing.

This will be our first Christmas without Vic.

I’ve never been one to make a big deal out of Christmas. But every year, I still found myself wrapping gifts for Vic and Kenzo, marking the season in small, gentle ways. Vic was the one who loved the ritual of it, the tree, the lights, the little details that made a house feel festive. It didn’t matter where he was living or how small the space, the tree always went up. That was just who he was.

Now, even thinking about putting up decorations feels impossible.

I’ve been slowly cleaning out Vic’s house, trying to make sense of what to keep and what to let go. I bring home the things that meant something the little reminders of his presence but each item I touch seems to hold a thousand memories. My own home has become a quiet museum of what was left behind. Every shelf, every drawer feels like it’s carrying both love and loss at the same time.

I tell myself I’m doing this for Kenzo that keeping a sense of normalcy will help him heal, help him remember the joy his dad used to bring. I try to hold steady for him, but the truth is, I feel like I’m barely keeping balance.
It’s too hard to move on.
Too hard to decide what matters.
Too hard to let go.

We’ll be going away again this year, our third end-of-year trip, one I planned long before I knew how different things would be. We leave on December 28. I tell myself it’ll be good for Kenzo, that the change of scenery will help. But even planning the details feels heavy, like I’m carrying someone invisible beside me, someone who should have been there too.

And lately, my mind keeps circling back to something from earlier this year.
Back in March, during mediation, Vic said no when I asked to take Kenzo to Vietnam at the end of the year. I remember being angry and confused, why would he say no? It made no sense at the time. I told him it would save me money if I booked early, but he was firm. Still no.

Now, I can’t help wondering if he somehow knew.
If, deep down, he sensed something none of us could see.
Maybe it wasn’t about control or disagreement. Maybe it was his quiet way of saying, “Don’t plan too far ahead. I might not be here when the year ends.”

That thought breaks me a little more each time it comes.

Christmas used to mean time, laughter, and lights, but now, it feels like a season of echoes.
I can almost see Vic standing by the tree, the soft glow of the fairy lights reflecting off his glasses, the faint smile he wore when Kenzo ran up to place the star at the top.

This year, the star will still go up but it will shine for him.