It's a story I often tell. Because it makes me smile and sometimes laugh. Because telling it offers a moment of connection to the past, and the love that filled it and even now endures. And because at a time of year when the currents of grief run deep, threatening without warning to upend any ordinary moment, it reminds me that joy lives here, too. Here, amid the bruised, the worn, the lonely. The clanging ring of absence.
It’s the story of the Christmas my family and I were overloaded with smelts. The tiny fish are a staple of the traditional Feast of the Seven Fishes served on Christmas Eve in many Italian households. Except it was our only fish, and the only feast we had was a medley of them, fried and paired with ketchup and hot sauce to dip them in, accompanied by crackers stacked with pepperoni and cheese, Christmas cookies and eggnog, dusted with cinnamon and nutmeg. All of this eaten, standing up, with little ceremony, as we gathered around the island in my mom's kitchen after Christmas Eve service. Listening to parang soca tunes or carols by the Salsoul Orchestra.
The smelts were always a gift from Lou, my mom's partner, who as an Italian-American, introduced us to this holiday tradition. He picked them up, already fried, from a local seafood place every Christmas Eve and brought them to my mom's before we left for church.
The year Lou died, that market went out of business. But we insisted on having smelts for Christmas — even though the fish were rather bland and elevated, in my opinion, only by a generous slathering of ketchup and pepper sauce. Even though my niece and sister-in-law never ate any and we usually ended up with left-overs.
But finding the fish wasn't as easy as we thought. Many supermarkets didn't carry them, and the seafood markets that did sold them uncooked. When I stumbled upon an old family market not far from my home that would fry them, I went and waited an hour for a pound as customers bustled in and out to pick up their holiday orders.
In a season that swung from bittersweet to simply hard and back again — Lou had been gone almost eight months by the time Christmas rolled around — this felt like a celebratory moment. I couldn't wait to show up at my mom's with my small bounty.
But when I did, my brother had a surprise of his own. He, too, had been on the hunt for smelts and had driven across the Pennsylvania line into Delaware to find them. And while he and I were out searching, one of Lou's sons delivered some smelts to my mom.
We had more than we would ever eat, and we laughed and laughed over our largesse and our shared determination to honor Lou by keeping this tradition. I had smelts in my freezer for month after the holidays. So did my mom.
Today, when I think of Lou at Christmas, I remember many things. His generosity. How touched he always was by the gifts we gave him, no matter how simple. His presence at brunch and how he relished every bite of what my mom prepared and lauded praise upon my desserts. The way he made my niece Josie giggle with his tricks — the missing thumb was always a favorite — and loved to regale us with his stories.
And I remember the smelts. The year we made it a mission to find them. Gathered them, as if gathering love. Brought Lou closer to us in the searching and the sharing and the eating.
The holidays will always be challenging after the loss of a loved one. Even years and decades later, grief will surface alongside the memories; longing and missing can feel acute amid old and new traditions.
It helps to have a smelts moment. A way of making your person part of your celebrations, whether that's by honoring a tradition you once shared or creating one that incorporates them.
Maybe you dream up a special ritual that brings to mind the qualities you most loved in them, offers you a space to connect that feels comforting and meaningful.
Maybe you reminisce, sit and tell stories, play old videos and voicemails, lean into their energy.
Maybe you set a place for them at the table, pour their favorite drink, light a candle where they would have been.
What might make you smile? When sadness overwhelms, what is a funny memory you can reach for? What would draw you, if even for a moment, into your loved ones' warmth, their essence, the beauty they brought to your life? And what, if you haven’t the energy for any of this, would care and nourishment mean for yourself, would bring you a reprieve of true joy?
For, yes, this is a heavy, grief-laden time of year. But there's room for joy, too, wherever you seize it, however it comes to you. You might even be inspired to create it. To allow your own profusion of smelts. To thread a new and sweet and silly story into the aftermath of loss, where most of the tales of who we've loved end on the day they died.
Want more tips to navigate the holidays?
Listen to my interview with Rosanne Corcoran on Daughterhood the Podcast here.
Looking for more holiday grief support?
Join me on Wednesday, December 14, at 6:30 p.m. for the virtual offering, Grieving During the Holidays, offered by Weavers Way Coop. Register for free here.