Hanging from one windowsill at my aunt's house, a cheery chalkboard still reads "19 days until Christmas."

Her home, the cozy place that usually hosts our crazy 60-person Christmas Eve family party has been very, very quiet.

My uncle Geoff died suddenly on Dec. 7 this year, leaving behind his wife Julie and four kids, the oldest a daughter just stepping into teenage-hood in with long-legged beauty and the youngest son a second grader with enough energy to power the west half of Iowa.

When will Christmas come for them? Will life ever be 'normal' again?

I went to the funeral. At the cemetery, the path to the gravesite was snowy and slippery. We stood in cold huddles, waiting for the pallbearers to find their footing step after slow step. Then my aunt Julie's cracking voice pealed out, calling to my dad, her brother.

"Francis, will you help carry Geoff?"

The sounds of Christmas are all around, and it's easy for me to get caught up in the cheery Fa-la-la-la-las and jingle of bells. But one of my friends whose dad died when she was a teenager once told me that what can hurt the most is that other people seem to forget after a while that you've lost someone close to you. Let them know you haven't forgotten, she said, especially at the holidays, the anniversaries, the Father's Days.

I keep hearing my aunt's voice: "Will you help carry Geoff?"

I don't want her to have to ask again. I want to help carry her.