My first consciously
remembered Christmas.
I don't know the
year, but I haven't yet started school. We are in my maternal
grandparents' home on the south coast of England. It is Christmas
eve, dark outside. There is a thick, freezing fog, shifting and
swirling against the window pane.
My father is not
here; The Queen has sent him somewhere on her inscrutable business; we are
between postings, between homes. My mother, though she laughs and
plays with me, and we all talk of the fun we will have tomorrow,
looks wistful when I come on her unexpectedly. I can feel her lack of
enthusiasm for the holiday, whatever she says.
I have had a bath. I
am ready for bed, in a maroon dressing gown with braid cord piping around
the seams. I look up and there is a face at the window, emerging from
the night to cross its eyes and poke out its tongue at me. I shriek
in surprise; my mother and grandparents jump, look at me, follow my
gaze to the window; there is nobody there. My mother gathers me onto
her lap, folding me in her arms.
My grandfather
answers a knock at the front door. We hear his surprise; the door
closes. Then my father is in the room; he has bummed a ride on a cargo flight from god knows where, then hitched
south through the fog. He must catch the same plane back on boxing
day but he is here now and my mother glows with renewed life and joy
as I am included in the midst of their embraces...
I don't remember any
other Christmas presents from that year, though there must have been
some; just that one.
1 comment:
wow. Thank you for sharing...
;-)
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