“Oh, mummy, the Christmas tree is wonderful. It looks so delicious.”
Simone reached out to take a succulent morsel. The tree faded revealing a room bare of all but a few furnishings.
Simone’s mother held her tightly as she sobbed, “It’s okay. It was a dream.”
“But I’m so hungry.”
“It doesn’t have to be that way,” Kylie complained.
“It does! Are you coming?”
Simon crept downstairs and hid.
Before long his parents appeared with gifts, “That’s five for each.”
Simon waited then crept upstairs, “I’m right.”
Kylie frowned, “You’re not.”
In the morning, the family gathered to open gifts, six presents for each.
“But you put five there,” Simon complained.
His parents were surprised, “Yes, five each but don’t forget Santa.”
“There’s an extra,” Simon pointed.
A card read, “For Kylie who always believes, love Santa.”
Kylie found a small bell, “It’s one of Santa’s sleigh bells!”
Simon frowned, “It didn’t have to be that way.”
Sixteen, the world awakening. Not adult, not child. The journey begun. What awaits, unknown. Go forward.
“Would you like fries with that?” Michael heard the waitress ask customers.
He decided it must be a greeting people used in restaurants.
Their meal was arriving. A large tray was piled with their order of burgers and milkshakes.
As the waitress neared, someone pushed a chair back after spilling a coffee.
She tripped.
Our order went flying, landing on me. I stood dripping with milkshake and covered in burgers. The waitress was apologetic as she tried to clean me off.
Michael looked up, “Daddy, would you like fries with that?”
The restaurant burst into laughter with me laughing loudest.
Kids, you’ve got to love them.
“We gather together to ask the Lord’s blessing,” her father said as Suzie held her hands together.
With the prayer to bless the food over, the family began to eat but Suzie sat motionless.
“What’s wrong sweetheart?” her mother asked.
“We have so much,” Suzie replied.
“That’s why we give thanks, Suzie,” her father reminded.
“But Michael has little this year,” she explained.
It was true, the family two doors down had little now their father was sick and had lost his job. Their mother earned little from her work.
The family reorganised.
“We gather together to ask the Lord’s blessing,” two families now prayed at the table.
The coach always tells us we should have fun and try to win.
Kick off!
Joe stops the ball. He kicks to Susan.
“Kick it to John!” I hear a scream.
“Kick it to Stephen,” another yells. “NO, Michelle!”
Susan is confused and kicks in the wrong direction.
We rush to get back but it’s too late. Our opponents score.
Parents are yelling at us for our stupidity. Some blame Susan.
We line up for kick off. No one is smiling. This isn’t fun.
“Don’t worry, Susan. It wasn’t your fault,” I try to say.
She wipes away a tear.
I look from my window. A young team stands, making ready to play. Their hair is in team colours, their faces full of enthusiasm and their coaches encouraging. Will they win? Will they have fun?
The whistle blows. The kick-off drives the ball towards them. Parents run along the sideline yelling at players to kick the ball.
The ball is lost. The opponents score. Fury is in the eyes of some parents, blame levelled at the players they see at fault.
The team lines up again, the enthusiasm of their faces lost. A tear rolls down the cheek of one.
The blackness creeps into my soul. My mind craves stimulation. Images form in my troubled mind, terrors imagined.
“Tomorrow I must pay the electricity bill.”
I planted a little story seed in the mind of a child, “If you could plant any tree, what story would it tell?”
Her brow wrinkled in thought until an idea sprouted.
“I’d plant a family tree to tell the story of our lives.”
“A family tree?”
“The roots would be the family growing strong. The trunk would the home in which the family lives. The branches would be each person and the love they share. The leaves would tell the stories of each life.”
“Trees need water.”
“The water would be their tears of joy.”
“What a beautiful tree.”
She smiled, “We’ve added another leaf.”
An old house before me, derelict, yet somehow enticing me to enter the gaping hole, once a door.
I touched the doorframe, long gone any sign of paint. The roughness tells me of long years past, of many hands that passed this way.
The gentle darkness beckons. The sound of a creak, the thought of many feet having trod.
A trace of dankness fills the air. The smells of cooking from a wood stove though long unused. The hint of families long gone lingers, apparitions of times shared.
A house, old, lacking care yet with the spirit of many lives.
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