Merry

This year, I don’t care about the naughty list. I do remember our first tree, lush and decorated red. How baby-me was trembling putting the last decoration on the top. How the way you held me up felt like flying.

This year, I don’t listen to my usual pre-prepared jingle list.I do remember you telling me about; Chris Rea’s Driving Home for Christmas. The lyrics had you imagining Dad on his way home. And how; When you explained this to anyone, you would always, always, for an almost unnoticeable split second, stare into nothing.

I also remember how we laughed, singing Feliz Navi Dad with the worst accents, and even worse dances. The shows we watched on television. The food we always had to have in house days before. The budding expectation glistening in your eyes when you hoped for my happiness and surprise when I opened my presents. How I would always be happy with another pair of socks.

This year, I didn’t put up our tree, even though, then, I promised I would. I do think about this every day, but I also think that this year is just what it is. This year.

This year, I don’t have the power to pretend all is okay without you here. I do not live life the same way. I do not believe I am the same.

So, this year, I will skip these days. Maybe I can do this. All next year.