Bittersweet holidays

I always loved winter holidays, but each year, they feel more and more bittersweet.

Photo from New Year’s Eve 2018, when life didn’t feel so heavy.

I love winter holidays. In my family, New Year’s Eve has always been the main family holiday, not Christmas. The reason goes back to the Soviet times when religion was prohibited, and so was each nation's distinctive culture and traditions under the Soviet occupation. People were robbed of their individuality and forced to celebrate only the holidays that the Soviet government allowed. Of course, as a child, I didn’t know any of that. I just loved the holiday spirit, presents, and delicious food.

The festive mood settled in our house starting from the beginning of December. My siblings and I had performances and concerts at school and kindergarten. The radio, always turned on in the kitchen, started to play holiday songs. Mom received presents from work: a bag of candies and chocolates for each child. At that time, there were three of us, and Mom usually brought home three presents. There were lots of sweets, and we sorted them and set aside the most delicious ones for New Year’s Eve dinner. 

Holidays smelled of tangerines, fresh winter air, chocolates, and Mom’s baking. I loved the rush and excitement of choosing and buying presents. I remember how I saved the money I was given for school lunches and ate only at home. By December, I had collected some amount and then surprised everyone with presents. I bought them for everyone, even for our cat and dog. Mom usually received some cosmetics, siblings got toys or puzzles, and pets received treats. I wrapped each present in beautiful paper and ribbons, and attached handwritten notes. I think I always loved giving presents more than receiving them.

Right now, holidays feel bittersweet. My family is scattered across the world. We haven’t been able to see each other for many years due to the reasons that don’t depend on us. My youngest sister grew up without me. Our apartment that bustled with life stands abandoned and empty. None of us can come back to Belarus. Holidays are bittersweet for my husband, too. On New Year’s Eve in 2020, his parents and grandma called us, and we wished each other a good year ahead. A few months later, his dad got very sick, and my husband couldn’t make it in time from the U.S. to Ukraine to say goodbye. Then, a year later, in the winter of 2022, Russians attacked Ukraine and dropped the first bombs on Kyiv, where the husband’s family lived. His mom and grandma had to flee their home and leave everything behind. Their house stands abandoned and empty, too.

My husband and I live in the U.S. Our loved ones are refugees in Europe. There is an ocean between us. I know that many people are separated from their loved ones on the holidays, too. I think of Ukrainians who celebrate these holidays in foreign countries, far away from their families and home. I think of Ukrainians whose loved ones are at the frontlines in immense danger. I think of people who have lost their loved ones, and holidays will never be the same. 

Right now, our world is filled with pain, injustice, and grief, and it makes these holidays bittersweet. These days, I remind myself of what I read about grief some time ago. At first, it takes up all of your heart. But then, the heart starts to expand, and there appears room for love, and joy, and happiness. Grief will always be there, but it won’t take the whole space anymore – not because it became smaller, but because the heart grew bigger. I think we can feel grief and sadness this holiday season, but we can also feel joy and happiness. Not because we forgot or stopped caring but because our hearts grow each day, and there is room for both.

I want to share two poems that I wrote this month.

Roller coaster

Notifications keep popping up on my phone.
Siblings and mom discuss something 
in the family chat and send photos.
The roller coaster is going up.
I smile.
I feel grateful.
My heart is warm.

I think how happy I am 
to stay in touch with them
during all those years since I left home.
I start to count how many years 
I haven’t seen my family
because of the millions of things I can’t control.
The roller coaster is going down.
I feel sad.
My heart is cold.

Every day, I make an effort 
to feel grateful 
in the midst of pain.
I’m on an endless roller coaster ride 
that every immigrant before me felt,
that every immigrant after me will feel.
Is there too much to ask 
to live close to the people you love?

Apparently, it is.

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A phone call

I called my grandma. 
She picked up on the third attempt.
It’s early morning where she lives 
and it’s late night where I am.

She showed me a new hat she bought.
It was fluffy and had a light violet shade.
She put it on and sat wearing it the whole time.
It suited her well.

During the call, 
I often saw only the top of her head.
She, as always, held her phone too low.
I took screenshots nevertheless,
because I want to have more pictures of her.

She showed me her plant with crimson flowers.
It looked so bright against the gray December sky.
Then she showed me her collection of dishes 
and said that if I wanted, it could be mine.

She shared that her cat ran away 
because she forgot to close the front door.
Then she asked when I’d be able to visit.
I couldn’t tell her that I can’t go home anymore.

So I smiled and said that I hoped to be able to visit soon.
Then I changed the subject and asked about her health.
She lives in Belarus, 
but it’s as unreachable to me 
as if she lived on the Moon.
Sometimes, I wish I had never left.

I know that even if I could go back in time, 
I would still leave.
So often, the right choice is the hardest one.
I held the tears back, smiled,
and promised to call on New Year’s Eve.

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Warmly,

Darya

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Email: daryazorka@substack.com

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