[NOTE: The story below was chosen as a winner in Word-wise's 2008 Short Writing Contest. Except for the right to publish it here as a winner, full rights and ownership of the story belong exclusively to Jack Horne. Contact him directly for permissions.]
I sat writing Christmas cards to our friends and neighbours, still not numbed after the fifth at signing only my name. My misty eyes glanced towards his grinning photograph and my thoughts returned once more to last Christmas in Austria.
In my mind's eye, I again saw him attempting to dance during an evening of Tyrolean yodelling. I had felt embarrassed at his efforts, which had included him kicking the bare shins of a young dancer in his enthusiasm, his trousers rolled up, revealing his plump hairy legs, to emulate the dancers' leather shorts; but the audience had howled with laughter. I smiled tearfully at the memory.
The sound of the ringing telephone brought me out of my reverie with a start.
'I'm just checking you're all right, Mum.' It was my daughter, Julie. 'I know how much Dad loved Christmas. I just wish we could be there to comfort you.'
'I'm fine, dear. Really.' I tried my hardest to sound convincing, but I knew I couldn't fool her. I changed the subject, 'And how are you all? Tom's stage debut as a shepherd went well? And Claire was an angel again, you said? You received my parcel? That's good. Is it snowing in Arizona yet?' I laughed, a pale imitation of my usual laugh, I knew. George had always asked that same question every year. I could just make out the sounds of Julie softly crying on the other end of the phone and, tears once more welling in my own eyes, I sniffed, 'I'll phone you tomorrow before the children open their presents, love.'
The nativity scene having its usual pride of place on the mantel shelf, a modest-sized tree decked with garlands, brightly shining glass balls and the star sitting aloft on top, the clutches of holly, ivy and mistletoe around the room, and his favourite carols playing on the CD player all gave the impression of festive cheer. He would have approved of the decorations--but what would he think of me? Dabbing my eyes, I made an effort to concentrate on my Christmas card list once more.
Soon, however, my thoughts returned to Austria, the card which I held in my hand a snow scene, complete with jolly snowman. I recalled his efforts to build a snowman in the soft virgin snow during a walk in the early hours of the morning. Snowflakes covering him, he had laboured on the misshapen monstrosity, concentration etched on his ruddy face. After crowning his lumpy, squat, somewhat pin-headed creation with his own snow-covered cap, he had discovered with horror that he was the subject of intense amusement to some native shelf-fillers who lined the giant window of the district's supermarket. Red-faced, he had shuffled off in the snow. His high spirits always impossible to suppress, he'd very shortly looked over his shoulder, delighting in his footprints.
I wrote the next few cards, determined to complete the task. I paused at the glittery picture of a church, its pointed spire snow-capped, and remembered the little church where we had strayed to on another occasion. Its clock striking midnight the only sound, we had stood hand in hand, feeling the peace of the churchyard, little tea-lights glimmering on the snow-covered graves.
'Those lights really make you realise how much-loved all these people were--and still are,' he had said, smiling gently.
It isn't snowing here, but I shall go to midnight mass, as normal, and I'll place a tea-light on his grave, I thought. I found a tea-light in readiness for my night's plans, and then continued with my card-writing in a much better frame of mind. I felt almost cheerful by the time I had finished writing the last card. I realised how many friends I had: people who had shared George's life with me, people who had laughed with him and who had shed tears at his passing.
I also realised that I wasn't the only one who was missing him terribly. His best friend, William, would miss their traditional Christmas Eve pint of ale at the Windmill--he had said last year that he hadn't bothered going to the tavern when we'd been on holiday as it wouldn't have been the same without George.
His sister Violet would have missed sending him the usual gift--every year, despite severe arthritis, she had managed to make him a Christmas-themed hand-knitted sweater; he had particularly liked last year's reindeer.
Our grandchildren, Tom and Claire, would miss their tea-time telephone call on Christmas Eve--late night for us--and the not-too-scary ghost stories that he had read every year. Our lovely daughter, Julie, always a Daddy's girl, would just miss hearing his comforting voice.
I patted Snowy, our cat, who would have been asleep on his lap. 'Yes, I know you miss him too, girl,' I said, stroking her tummy as she rolled over for me. I patted my knees, as George had always done, and after a moment's hesitation she leapt onto my lap, purring softly. Looking down at the contented cat, I reached for the telephone and called those who had also loved my husband dearly, knowing that they would be missing him this Christmastime.
'William, don't forget to drink a toast to George when you go down to the Windmill for your Christmas ale,' I said, smiling through my tears.
'Violet, thank you for the beautiful hand-knitted scarf. George would have loved the poinsettia design. Did I ever send you the picture of him in last year's Rudolph jumper?'
'Julie, I know how much you're missing your father, too, and I'm just checking that you are all right. I wish I could be there to comfort you.' After I'd chatted with my daughter for over an hour--it was Christmastime, after all--I finished with, 'And I'll call the children later to read them a Christmas Eve ghost story.'
It was the first time that I had laughed and reminisced about George with others, and I felt that the burden of some of the grief had been lifted. I like to think that my phone calls had helped the others who were also mourning him.
After a warming cup of tea and a heartier supper than I'd managed in the months since his death, I set off to deliver the Christmas cards, stopping at each house to wish our friends and neighbours in the village the compliments of the season, as we had always done as a couple. 'I'll see you later at church,' I called to each as I made my way towards the next house or cottage.
That night I sang carols at the top of my voice, not caring if I was singing out of tune, fond memories of George's tone-deaf renditions filling my head. I stepped out of the church to feel the first few snowflakes kissing my cheeks, and I lit the tiny tea-light. Placing it on his grave, I whispered, 'You were so loved--and still are. Merry Christmas, George.'
Full of the magic of Christmas, I made my way up the deserted cobbled street, my hair and clothing white with snow by the time I arrived home.
© 2008 by Jack Horne