Christmas is a time when families come together. Sometimes
things explode, unwanted and unexpected, like an insidious grenade of a cracker
that no-one pulled; or, if you’re really unlucky, like an Eastenders Christmas
special.
But sometimes, Christmas is lovely. There's the tree,
twinkling in the corner; the presents, frantically acquired and hastily wrapped,
often the night before; the gently steaming mulled wine simmering on the stove;
the alluring aromas of the roast dinner; the catch-ups on the sofa over a nice
hot cup of tea and Sky Plus.
This Christmas was one of those Christmases. Not showy, or
dramatic (beyond the Eastenders Christmas special); just family, reunited,
under one roof, enjoying each other's company.
One person, above all, has loved the full house and the
attention of doting family members. Rohan. He has been spoiled rotten. Not just
with the presents (so many presents),
or the newly acquired and exciting knowledge of Santa Claus, but by the
constant stream of playmates and companions, the steady outpourings of love and
affection, with him at the centre of it all.
But, as in life, sometimes people come, and then, after a
stretch, they have to go. Sometimes you see them again, and sometimes you don’t.
And the more you love them, the harder it is to accept it when they leave.
So it was today. After a seemingly endless morning of
packing and unpacking the car – what appeared to be a mammoth task of Super
Tetris proportions – it was finally time for Rohan's beloved Ajima (grandma) and Azoba (granddad)
and Bua (auntie) to head back home to Shrivenham.
Moments earlier, my nephew was in high spirits, running
around the hall and affectionately head-butting us all like a new-born lamb as
his dad shuffled past out the door with yet another suitcase or bag of Boxing
Day sales shopping to try and tessellate in the back seat of the car.
“Ro,” my sister explained, “Ajima, Azoba and Bua have to go
back to Shrivenham now. That's why they're packing the car. Are you going to
say goodbye to them?”
He looked up at her with a slight frown, not quite
comprehending the full meaning of his mum’s words.
“Are we going to Shrivenham too?” he asked.
“No, baba,” my sister said gently. “Not today. There’s no
room in the car! Look, there are too many bags! There’s hardly any room for
poor Ajima in the back!”
He looked from my sister to me, as if for affirmation. I
could see the cogs whirring: realisation, slowly starting to dawn.
“But we can go visit Shrivenham soon,” I piped in. “And it'll
be your birthday soon, too, so we'll see them again then!”
My jaunty, optimistic C-Beebies tone, however, didn't seem to
be having the desired effect. He was beginning to look increasingly bewildered
by this unexpected turn of events.
My sister and I shared a quick, knowing glance, very much
aware of what was coming.
He was temporarily distracted by the onslaught of goodbye
hugs and kisses, but there, in the doorway, the tears started to pool in his
eyes.
“But I want to come!” he said. “I want to go in the car.”
“Let’s go into the lounge and you can stand on the sofa and
look out the window and wave at them,” my sister suggested, deploying a tried
and tested distraction technique.
We huddled him into the lounge and he clambered onto the
sofa. “But,” he said again, bottom lip wobbling, “I want to go! I want to go in
the car!”
“I know, sweetheart,” my sister said, cuddling him, “but
look, there's no room for your car seat and we can't go in the car without your
seat, can we? And look! Daddy's not going in the car, either. He’s coming back
inside.”
“Daddy's not going?”
“No. Look, there he is. Wave!”
Outside, my brother-in-law hugged his family a final time
and then came back into the house. As he entered the lounge, Rohan turned to
him and said, sniffling, “I want my seat.”
At that moment, as I looked at my nephew and his adorably pitiful
little face, I felt a tugging sensation deep in my chest – I knew that he would
probably forget all about it in a few minutes time (ah, the joys of being a
child), but nevertheless, it was recognition of a feeling most of us have felt many times before
and will continue to feel, from now until the end of time. The sadness of
saying goodbye to people that you love.
Lesson #4: Goodbyes
never get any easier.
