Ever since I could remember, my mother had always cherished Christmas. One of my earliest memories is decorating my family Christmas tree when I was three. It was a tradition to drink my mother's "famous" hot chocolate we hung the ornaments on the bristled branches. When every box was empty of decorations, my mother lifted me up so I could place the star at the tree's top. Then, we broke out the board games and spent the night laughing together over Clue and Yatzee.

Walking around the stores during winter had been a favorite activity of my mom's. On more than one occasion, we would walk into a store with a list of a few things then walk out with a cart full of Christmas decorations. Our house had been the brightest and merriest, thanks to my mother. Many who would drive down our street would stop and marvel at our festivity. Every year, our lawn was littered with every decoration you could imagine. When I asked my mom why we decorated so intricately, she replied, "I want to make sure that everyone has a little bit of Christmas in their heart."

In the winter of my sophmore year, my mother was her way home when a intoxicated driver swerved into her lane. I never saw her again. The doctor told us that her death was instant, as if to console us. But is anything instant? Unce Ben's Instant Rice takes five minutes. Jello instant pudding takes an hour. The pain of those seconds must've been horrific as her lungs collapsed and her heart burst. Was there even time for her life to flash before her eyes?

After her death, Christmas was no longer a time of joy and peace. It became months of pain, confusion, and sleepless nights. The boxes upon boxes of decorations remained in the garage, gathering dust. When people drove down the street, they didn't stop to admire our home. Instead of wearing lights and decorations, our house remained empty and bare.

It has been over a decade since that tragic afternoon. This winter, we gathered at my childhood home to decorate the tree. The building burst with laughter while we cautiously sipped my father's hot chocolate attempt. After the tree couldn't hold another ornament, I noticed an old box at the bottom of one container. When I saw what it contained, tears gathered in my eyes. Noticing his look of fascination, I lift up m son for him to place the glimmering star at the tree's head. That night, seeing her star on our tree, I could feel my mother watching over us. For the first time since her death, I was filled with hope for the future.