As I enter the driveway to the family home the memories begin to embrace me. Each Christmas Day I go back home to Tennessee to enjoy a turkey dinner with my Mother and sister. It's the one meal a year I get to have with real china and crystal and silver. After dinner I mosey over to the card table that's set up full of home made goodies. Shortbread cookies, marshmallow fudge, poundcake fruitcake, and more.

After dinner, we retire to the living room and pass out gifts. My Mother takes her usual seat. The white leather chair my Dad once occupied during this ceremonious occasion remains empty nearby; looming like a monument still honoring his presence in the family.

On the floor in front of the most beautifully decorated Christmas tree, Robin sits and digs for wrapped packages. She passes them around the room and we ooooh and aaaaah with satisfaction. Hugs and smiles display all around and soon we spread out and move to more comfortable settings to try on or play with our gifts. I may take a stroll on the golf course out back, walk the family dog, or take a nap in my old room. By evening, we gather to look through old photographs and watch old family films.

Much later when all is quiet, I will go to my father's closet, slide his suits down the rod and smell the clothes that still wait there. I see familiar sweaters I had bought him and a hat or pair of shoes that were his favorites. It's the one place I always go to be near him. Suits, sweaters and dress shirts still hang in their individual bags. Some don't. I push my face into the fabrics and breath in deeply, hoping for signs of his scent I found soon after he'd left us.

Nothing but tweed and herringbone. Starch and leather. I'm comforted nonetheless. I exhale as I close up the closet with a satisfied sense of purpose. Thankful for this odd connection we have together. I'll keep it close to my heart for another year.