I woke up every morning during Christmas season to Bach’s Christmas Oratorio. The timpani, bold and loud and thudding, starts us out by making it known we are to listen. “This is a good piece of music. Pay attention.” Who’s telling me this? Bach? Dad? Do I care?  I’ve played this Christmas season since leaving home. I asked Dad to choose the one he likes best my last Christmas at home, 1985. He chose it, bought it for me for Christmas that year, and it’s moved with me many times. I’ve not listened to it this year. I didn’t listen to it last Christmas either.

Dad died a year ago in October, two days after my birthday which ended up being the last time I heard his voice. Needless to say, last Christmas was weird. No, it was off. I was off. I wasn’t in the mood. I knew that playing the Oratorio would just remind me of dad, so I listened to anything but that. This year’s birthday was a dud. I went right back into my intense grief, missing Dad all over again. I know that if I play the Christmas Oratorio I’ll likely burst into tears.

I don’t like this way of being. Time doesn’t stop. Christmas comes and goes. How long am I going to avoid listening to my favorite morning Christmas music? I’m aware it doesn’t feel like Christmas at all without the music I woke up growing up. I want it to be Christmas. The nostalgia is calling; I can feel it. I desperately want to hear it, but I’m equally aware I’m scared. With crying never being a good thing growing up, I still don’t like to cry openly. I simply don’t want to cry listening to this one piece of music—one so important to me—not listening to it is unsettling in a different way.

To cry or not to cry.

Then again, what if I didn’t cry? I might surprise myself. Tomorrow morning. I’ll give it a try. Maybe.

Grief has a whole mind and spirit of its own. All it takes is a song, scent, location, book, photo, or memory and I go right back into it. Tears. Music. Dad. J.S. Bach’s Christmas Oratorio. Sometimes I marvel at the strangeness of it all.