How do you remember
lost loved ones at Christmas?

Christmas can be a time when relatives who have died are especially missed.

Six people reveal why they hold certain everyday objects so close to them at this time of year.

My dad was Michael David Denwood, or MDD, as he used to write in his very distinctive hand.

My dad - the proud Cumbrian and marmalade magician.

Marmalade, chutney, jam, pickled onions and trifles.

Dad gave me this jar of marmalade just before he died. He brought it down to London encased in bubble wrap on a cold and frosty visit in March. His final visit. We didn’t know.

What a great visit it was - Greenwich by boat, Priscilla Queen of the Desert, the Wallace Collection, Stonehenge, Salisbury Cathedral…

He is missed beyond words - especially at Christmas.

It’s a time when dads are missed and treasures - like Michael’s 2011 marmalade - are kept close.

When you lose a member of your family, you feel the edges of the hole they leave more sharply at Christmas.

The person I miss is my grandfather.

Throughout my childhood and into adulthood, my father worked away for all but eight weeks of a year.

My grandfather was my substitute.

On Christmas Day, I miss him with such a deep ache that his absence is guaranteed to bring quiet, hidden tears at some point.

After a secret sob, you’ll find me in the kitchen.

I remove his chipped, old teacup from the back of the cupboard, pour an inch or two of frozen peas into it and sit and watch the turkey glow golden through the oven glass.

As the peas defrost in my mouth, I reminisce about the day he chipped this, his favourite teacup, in the sink.

Instead of cursing, he turned to five-year-old me and said, “I know just what to do with this”.

He went to get some peas, handed me the cup, kissed my head, and carried on with the washing up.

I always find this a great metaphor for how life must continue to move on after he died.

But at Christmas, for a short time, I notice the missing chip and how sharp it feels.

Then my daughter comes in to steal the last of my peas, and I smile, and carry on.

My dad David Nicholls was an incredibly practical man and always kept a penknife in his pocket.

Dad died in 2013 from bowel cancer and his last knife was the thing that I commandeered.

I keep it in my paint box and use it to sharpen my pencils. As an artist it’s something I do a lot.

Each time I hold it in my hand I feel Dad’s hand - and I draw enormous comfort from it.

Growing up, Christmas was a special time in our house and Dad loved it. There was always a thrill when he brought home the Christmas tree.

I remember him using the knife to slit open the net the tree was wrapped in, letting it unfold.

Then he used it to whittle the base of the trunk, so it would fit into the holder.

He used it to trim the top of the tree, so it wouldn't scrape the ceiling and there would be enough room for the angel.

It’s by remembering these little things that Dad lives on, and perhaps in my own enthusiasm for Christmas trees that tend to scrape the ceiling.

The bigger the better - and when lit and decorated I silently offer a “How about that one dad!”

My Dad, Barry Michael Lindsell, passed away four years ago from mesothelioma.

At Christmas he'd always ask for Old Spice, and woe betide anyone who got him a different brand.

I just have to catch the slightest scent of it and a door opens in my mind and my heart breaks a little bit more.

The smell reminds me of Christmas Monopoly games, when Dad would sulk if he lost. And also the carpet strewn with nut shells (Dad commandeered the nutcracker, every time).

Now I carry on the tradition every year.

Old Spice - and a bottle of Navy rum to toast his memory.

If you're reading this Dad, here's to you.

I’ll start out by stating I’m not a sentimental person really.

This plate isn’t expensive, and wasn’t from some fancy china tea service only used on Sundays or special occasions.

It’s a cheap Staffordshire production printed plate.

My nana and grandad were working class. My nan did numerous jobs including working as a bus conductor, in cafes and at the local Co-op, while bringing up five children.

Her kitchen was built by my grandad, and her cups and saucers were a collection you’d expect to find in an office kitchen area - not one cup matched.

I think I got the plate when my nan - a supreme baker - sent me some pie and I never returned it.

Her pastry could not be bettered, and I have not eaten apple pie since she died.

When she died the plate became far more precious as time went by - much to my surprise.

It reminded me of her pies, and how she made me fried egg sandwiches when I visited.

I was very close to her and I miss her terribly.

Maybe this plate makes me grieve, which I didn’t really do at the time.

My mama was my grandma, Kathleen Rosemary Potter, and she was the most beautiful person I ever knew.

Everyone called her Mama Kate.

She died of liver cancer after a short illness and we were devastated.

My mum and I sat with mama during her final hours. My grandad Jack never recovered from the loss and died of a stroke the following Easter.

Before her illness, Mama never went out without her make-up and loved to go to Nottingham on the bus.

My mum gave her the Midland Bank wallet to keep her bus pass in, and Mama thought it was lovely.

That bus pass gave her freedom. She was so grateful for it and I now treasure it.

I’ve also still got the necklace she is wearing in the picture. She loved that too.

She also had a beautiful set of old tree decorations. I used to help put the tree up every year. One of the decorations was one I’d made at school.

It was cardboard with glitter on. She always had to place that one on the tree herself.

She treated it like it was her favourite.