There was no celebrating Christmas as usual last year, for we’d lost our beloved son Adam the previous January, and the memories were wrenching. Our older son announced that instead of coming home, he would spend Christmas with his girlfriend’s family, which we understood and felt would be better for him. But that left us. So we resolutely turned our backs and visited very dear friends far away who knew our sons well. At the time, I thought of us as escaping from a dwelling of despair, but now I think we were actually escaping to a haven of caring and acceptance – friends whom we enjoyed spending time with, who could reminisce about Adam at Christmases past, and who weren’t bothered if we teared up when we did.

More important for us than Christmas last year was the New Year. For many years, we’ve gathered with another family to celebrate with dinner on New Year’s Day. Sometimes we invited others to join; sometimes it was just our two families. We never missed. And Adam always helped me prepare the meal, from the time he was little to the last, spending New Year’s Eve in the kitchen before heading off to a party with his girlfriend. He died 2 weeks later. I wasn’t sure our friends would want to continue the tradition, and they weren’t sure we would. Neither wanted to put the other under any pressure, and so neither of us spoke of it, until finally, after a reunion party for our son’s friends, we sat down to talk. The decision came together. We knew we couldn’t let it go.

With our older son away, it was just me in the kitchen, and solitary memories can cripple. We keep a photo of our son in the kitchen, and I lit a candle for him. I then took a deep breath, pulled out his iPod for the first time, connected it to speakers, and turned up his music full blast, hoping the neighbors were away. And I sang along. Not well, but he didn’t sing well either, which never stopped him, so I figured it shouldn’t stop me. I’d known the iPod was there all along, but I’d been unable to touch it. It seemed that this was the right time.

When our friends arrived, we set Adam’s photo at his place at the table, where he’d sat the year before. Before the New Year’s toast, we each lit a votive and set it around his photo. We did the meal as we always had, sometimes reminiscing, but mostly not. And at the end, we took our candles and snuffed them out, carrying him on in our thoughts that night.

On the morning of Adam’s last New Year’s Eve, our always reliable disposal malfunctioned for the first time. Adam got the tools and fixed it. Last New Year, after our friends left and my husband cleaned up the kitchen, he came in grinning to say that Adam had just paid us a visit. The disposal went out. I laughed, then turned out the lights and cried.

The best gift that you can give a friend facing the holidays after losing a loved one is compassion and understanding. I’ve been so grateful to, and for, Bev, who has helped to pull me through this season of darkness. Please do not remain silent. Sharing memories you have of their loved one is a priceless gift. People often are afraid to say anything for fear of “making someone cry” or making them “feel bad” or embarrassing them. Believe me, we feel bad with or without you, and we cry unassisted. It is not embarrassing. Indeed, there is a kind of sweetness in our sadness tears, for they seem to bring our beloved closer. As Bev so well understands.