“Tis the season to be jolly…” the voices sang.
Looking back on the year past, I considered the reasons why the year might not be so jolly; bills to pay, deadlines to meet, and then there was some illness.
“Merry Christmas,” a smiling child.
Joy quickly returns, “Merry Christmas, sweetheart.”
Quiet Christmas
(The tune: “White Christmas”)
I’m dreaming of a quiet Christmas,
But the kids won’t let it be.
Where their teardrops glisten,
And I won’t listen,
To hear complaining loud to me.
I’m dreaming of a quiet Christmas,
Now I wake from sleep so deep.
The children giggling,
Between us wriggling,
I hear their joy so clear for me.
I’m dreaming of a family Christmas,
Sat for dinner happily.
Our joy together,
No care the weather,
This is Christmas best for me.
* * * * * * * * * *
For all those who believe, Happy Christmas.
“Is it me or are bells ringing?”
Father stirred, “It’s nothing.”
Down the hall another stirred. Jarrod was seven.
Again there was the faint sound of bells. Only Jarrod heard. He knew it’d be their kitten playing with decorations.
In his dressing gown he shuffled out of the room, creeping downstairs so his parents wouldn’t hear.
Near their tree was a man in a red suit. Jarrod was about to let out a yell when the man turned. He put his finger to his mouth to signal quiet.
“Merry Christmas, Jarrod,” he said in a whisper as he disappeared.
Jarrod smiled, “No one will believe my blog.”
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A worn, tired old frame surrounds a window. The glass, still intact bar one, reflects on the passing world. A house… seen many lives pass through. What ghosts may linger within?
I stand transfixed.
Silence, then a whisper, “Why stand you there?”
The mind plays tricks but, no, again the whisper.
Reflections shimmer, the world outside fades, the face of a child appears, translucent.
She smiles, “Why stand you there?”
“Who are you?”
“I’m your child who never was.”
My paternal longing undone.
Tears well in my eyes, “My child?”
“Fear not father,” her face fades, the outside world returned.
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The powers that be struck. A child had been called to the head’s office.
No longer the apple of his eye, the teacher frowned at the smiling child.
One question, “Why the writing on the wall?”
Without losing her smile, she replied, “Some things must be written. Have you read it?”
True, he’d seen the offence but hadn’t read the words.
It read, “My mummy no longer has cancer.”
The teacher had known of her family’s struggles while their mother was sick, “Promise you won’t write on walls again and I’ll go see the head.”
Her grin broadened, “I promise.”
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“Are you sure it should be that colour?”
The five year old studied his drawing. His grass was coloured red, his sky green. The oddly shaped trees were blue of trunk, pink of leaf. The square sun shone bright blue.
“Look what the others have drawn. Do you see their colours?”
He looked at his neighbours’ drawings. All trees looked normal. All colours were ‘correct’.
“Wouldn’t it be better if you used real colours? Wouldn’t it be better if the trees looked like trees?”
The boy smiled, “If we were all meant to draw the same, God wouldn’t have made us different.”
“God didn’t make the grass red, nor the sky green and those hardly look like trees,” the teacher frowned.
“Why, miss, you passed each student and smiled, sometimes making a short comment. With me, you stopped and took in my picture. It made you think.”
“Pablo Picasso, you’ll be the death of me,” the teacher smiled.
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The sound of the bugle in taps, the lowering of flags, the minute’s silence, then the sound of Reveille, I look at the faces gathered and wonder what thoughts they hold.
I remember the story of Great Uncle Ernie in 1916. A runner, a wrong direction given, a gunshot is heard. Somewhere in France he lies, unknown where.
Thoughts turn to my father in 1942, a soldier sent to Singapore. Surrender came. At war’s end he returned to love ones but suffered on.
The Ode of Remembrance is read.
The gathered chorus, “Lest we forget.”
“For Ernie and my dad,” I say quietly.
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Sweltering, blistering, summertime sizzling,
Beaches, surfing, the river,
Christmas for swimming, it’s time for the trimming,
It’s in winter we shiver.
Thoughts haunt my mind, “How many burgers had I eaten before seeing the light? What animals lost their lives in my quest for the perfect burger?”
Near me sat others, oblivious to my pain, as yet more meaty burgers passed my way. They don’t understand the sacrifices I’d made. I use to enjoy the taste of a juicy, meaty burger but now I know better.
I sighed, “Tofu vegetarian burger with the lot.”
I suffer the pain of my convictions, concerned now for the suffering of the plants that have died for my burger.
“Make that a glass of water.”
The autumn leaves were painted with golden hues. The gathering time was drawing to a close.
“Earth Mother, will we have food?”
“Child, the family has worked hard. We’re almost done.”
As time passed so fell the final leaves. The family was safe in their lair. The waking food was ready.
They slept.
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