Taylored Memorial Creations

I have always loved Christmas trees. There is something about all the family gathered around spending time together that pulls at my heart strings.   Christmas Eve, growing up, would always find us at Grandma Finazzi’s house with all the aunts, uncles and cousins. Christmas morning with my siblings. It warmed my heart. In the beginning of my life with Ed, our first apartment we borrowed a fake tree from his parents for Christmas. It wasn’t anything spectacular, but once we added some lights, garland, and a few ornaments, it was ours. We didn’t have many presents underneath, but it always warmed my heart during Christmas to have it displayed in the corner of the room.   When we had kids, we still put that tree up every year. The first Christmas in our own house, we started buying a real tree every year. We did the classic Christmas “thing” and took the kids out to pick one, strapped it onto the top of the car, and brought it home (only once did it fall off and go rolling down the hi

  Once all the family and friends were gone, it was just me. Alone. It is difficult to express the incredible sense of depression and loneliness that overcame me at that moment. The apartment, once the busy “hub” of our two lives intertwined and serving jointly in a higher purpose, was now empty, cold, and still. Where once I had an apartment buzzing with the TV and Ed talking, I was now surrounded by the remnants of guests, leftover food, and several bouquets of wilting flowers. The oppressive silence weighed heavily on me. It was so incredibly overwhelming I had to take a nap. In the weeks that followed I spent much of my time crying and trying to sort things and make lists of things “to do”. As a “task oriented” person, this at least made me feel useful. I felt very thankful and blessed to those who had helped me with the funeral and the dinner, those who sent flowers, cards, and money. I really felt the desire to let people know how much I appreciated these things, with