The steam from the macchinetta fills the room with walnut wafts born of bitter rain. I grab a mug from the cupboard. The pot rattles a low thrum as the last of the water shoots up into the pot chamber. It reminds me of the thrum of a steam train.
I glance at the roll of silver wrapping paper on the kitchen counter. I dash one sugar into the mug and instinctively reach for a second mug before stopping mid-movement.
What am I doing?
Coffee… right.
Presents… that’s it.
There’s Billy and Chloe’s presents to wrap and the usual bottle of Fundador Brandy for my father.
The pot starts to whistle quietly as the coffee spits, rattling the lid.
I grab the coffee pot from the gas and switch the hob off.
The last thing I need is to burn the house down.
The radio pipes Classic FM in the dim light from the tree. Gold gilt light reflects stylised snowflakes against the stark white of the kitchen tiles.
The sound of Piano and Cello weave their magical dance as the theme from Once Upon a Time in America by Morricone ripples through the room like melting snow. The melody, soft and sad, but uplifting in an odd sort of way, like death making way for new life.
I stare at the letter on the counter that returned down the defunct chimney this morning as I stir my coffee. The same letter that went up in flames with the two written by Billy and Chloe in the soft waning of twilight yesterday.
A tear teases the corner of my eye as I read.
Dear Santa,
I don’t know what to ask for. I don’t know what to say. I know what I want is impossible. To have her back, but I’ll ask anyway… bring my wife back to life.
If not back from the dead - after all the kids didn't need a zombie mother – take away this numbness that has taken hold. Return to me the pain of my memories.
Please, let the sound of every gate rattle, every lorry rumble, every bus engine judder at the traffic lights birth memories of that steam train.
The rolling summer clouds kissing wisps of steam thrown out by the engine, gossamer thin vapour drifting by the window that framed her face. Give me back every detail of the lines beneath her eyes, the crescent of her smile and the dimples that blossomed across her cheeks. Please Santa, take away this numbness and give me back the immediacy of my memories.
This is all I want for Christmas.
Yours Sincerely,
John
A sharp knock echoes through the room. The radio plays only a low hiss of static as the flicker of candles dance across the radiators giving the illusion of running water.
I stare at my coffee and take a slurp, trying to shake off this stupor.
The knock comes again, slow and determined at the back door.
I walk across the kitchen, numb with fear for some reason. A knot in my stomach, and every inch of me rebelling against what I’m doing.
As I open the door, a large man at least six foot eight inches tall, walks into the kitchen. The wind blows the portal wide, blowing snow and grit across the floor. I gawp at this fat monster and my hand shoots instinctively for the knife draw as ‘fight or flight’ kicks in.
This guy is big enough to knock me out with a flick of his little finger. The kids are asleep, and this Christmas psychopath, dressed in garish red and white is standing stock still, his eyes unwavering like icebergs.
A knife I didn’t even know I’d grasped falls from my hand as he speaks in a voice as deep as the darkness of the Mariana Trench.
“John Taylor, you don’t believe in me… but I still believe in you.”
“What, d’you mean” I stutter as he shakes the icicles from his beard.
“What you asked for is a big present. One you’d never be able to live with.” His words seem to fade like the radio’s music into static.
Images sluice through my mind.
A bright sun drapes speckled waves with iridescence as Carmel throws Billy skywards. His toddlers face a creased-up prune of joy, gurgling and giggling at his mother’s game.
Carmel’s dimples flashing across her face as she alternates between smile and concern at Chloe’s tears for fear of her first day of school.
Her shining blue eyes reflecting a tiny me, beaming a smile and blinking back tears.
Her hand clasping mine, warm, calm and reassuring as we stand in front of the congregation.
The blue tepid light of a hospital bed, starched white sheets framing her face as she half-smiles. The crinkles beneath her eyes like crumpled Christmas paper discarded in the silence of the night.
A voice rumbles through me as if from a long way away.
“Memories fade for a reason John; you will never live fully without them losing their vibrancy.”
I’m back in the room kneeling on the cold kitchen tiles, as hot tears wash and sting my eyes.
I see her as clear as day.
Carmel’s shining azure eyes and smile are as warm as a cup of coffee. She wraps me in a hug as the snow muffles the city sounds and blankets the trees with downy cold. The kids are throwing snowballs and laughing as her lips burn me.
“This memory will never fade John. That is my present to you. Merry Christmas.”
The End.
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