When is a wreath not just a wreath?

Dad
Born:  November 11, 1923

December 9, 2016

I was watching a Hallmark movie this afternoon (stop rolling your eyes) and remembered a conversation I had with my father last year about this time.  I was thinking about getting him a pretty Christmas wreath for his door.

“Hey, Dad!  Would you like a really pretty wreath on your door for the holidays?  The house? The office?  Either one.”

Dad laughed (which he often does when he's uncomfortable)  "No thanks!" he said.  Truly, you could hear the exclamation point.

"How come?"  He doesn't leave an opening for a 'real' conversation often, so I took the opportunity to find out why he was so definite. 

“My Uncle Jim was a mortician and owned the funeral home next door.  Wreaths, to me, mean death.  I wouldn’t care if I never saw another wreath.”

I’m not saying it turned me into a wreath hater or anything, but it was a new perspective for me.  I don’t think I’ll ever look at a wreath again without thinking of my father. 

Memories from my father are rare and always welcome.  Stories from the past define who we are in the present.