Faded tinsel from an ancient box too long in the attic,
Delicate glass ornaments; most of them still intact,
One screw missing from the old tree stand,
Red paint worn off most of the lights,
The fragrant scent of fir fills the little house.
She’s tired, but there’s a glint in her soft blue eyes.
With a heavy heart, she gently caresses
A paper snowflake, “To Mother With Love”
Uneven letters printed on the back.
Memories tug at her heartstrings.
Snowflakes dancing outside the window
The fireplace crackles softly
A faint hint of wood smoke in the room.
Squaring her shoulders, she presses play
On the old worn cassette player,
And Bing Crosby croons in the quiet room.
Smiling, she gently nudges her sweetheart,
White hair and beard, he looks like Santa!
“Come on, love, its Christmas Eve.”
Rising from his rocking chair, he grimaces,
The years have not been kind to his aching joints.
But this night is special to her, it always was.
Together, they decorate the four-foot tree.
It’s not much, but it’s all they need
And each decoration has captured a memory.
Mission accomplished, they step back.
The little tree sparkles in the warm glow
Of the cosy brick fireplace.
“Merry Christmas, my love, it’s the best tree ever.”
Smiling, she kisses his wrinkled cheek.
He’s been saying those exact words for sixty years.
She fixes them some warm eggnog
While he stokes the fireplace.
Meeting in the middle of the sofa
He pulls a soft red afghan over their knees,
Soon they are wrapped in warm memories,
And counting their blessings
They silently exchange a precious gift –
Another Christmas together!
© Annabel Sheila