Coming Back

“And there comes a moment, Lil,” Grandmamma said, as she held the empty box for me, “when you find out that you could play Christmas carols all the year long, and you could keep your lovely things on your tree, but it wouldn’t be Christmas.”

I shifted wide, tearful eyes from the blown glass star to her face.

“And then, even if it were,” she insisted, “would it matter so much, if it were always here?”

I scrunched my seven years old face in thought.
“No…” I shook my head and gingerly laid the star in the silk-lined box. I didn’t feel like crying any more.
“So next year we get to wait again, and the year after, and all the years,” I chirped, “because Christmas always comes back.”

Grandmamma stroked my hair and did not answer.

And there comes the moment when I sit at the family table, on Christmas Eve, and Grandmamma’s place is empty. I trimmed the tree by myself, this year, and some aunt cooked the pudding by her recipe.

Because Grandmamma did not want that I should learn it back then, but each Christmas, once it is past and gone, never comes back.

Coming Back

princessivye

Joined October 2007

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