One of the many fondest holiday memories I spent with my mother, Priscilla, was one Christmas eve spent only with her and my brother George. We were in her family room in Forbes Park (where she lived from 1954 until 1987, the year she passed away). She lit 12 beautiful glowing candles around the room and on the cocktail table which she had already prepared in the afternoon,
were a can of beluga caviar and all its garnishing, a bottle of Dom Perignon champagne and a can of pate de foie (goose liver) with melba toast.
Since George and I liked toasting to life, we put grapes in our champagne glasses and cheered one grape at a time for every coming month of the year and each of the last 12 months of the present.
I vividly remember one toast of my mother, as she raised her glass and clinked it against George’s and mine, and said, “Margarita, George! How I wish my Christmases with your father were as joyful, peaceful and loving as it is tonight.”
My mother and father parted ways in 1975. As George and I looked into each other’s eyes, with a candle aglow close beside her, I saw a tear or two roll down my mother’s cheeks and a sudden surge of sadness overcame her for a moment or two. “Merry Christmas, Mommy!” George and I promised her, “We will always make your Christmases like this one from here on.”
And now, Christmas 2020, I find myself with no mother and no favorite brother. But I find deep consolation that God gave me a wonderful granddaughter, Wendy, to fill this void and emptiness in my heart.
Merry Christmas Priscilla, I love you until the end of time… Divine Christmas to you, George.