A Christmas Gift

In all her seventy three Christmases, Mary had never wanted a Christmas gift as much as she did this year.

It had always been a family tradition for as far back as she could remember; everyone wrote their Christmas wish on a scrap of paper, folded it up and threw it into the roaring log fire.

If it was swallowed up by the flames, the story went that Santa knew you had been naughty and you wouldn’t get your wish.  If it danced out of reach of the fire and flew up the chimney, Santa knew you had been good and would deliver your wish to you on Christmas morning.

As a child, Mary had believed wholeheartedly that she had been as good as she could have been and hoped against hope that her neatly printed wish would fly up the chimney to Santa.  In later years, she had watched her own children’s rosy cheeks shining as their Christmas secrets whooshed up the chimney, aided by a quick waft of cold air from the living room door.

The tradition had waned in more recent years, due to a combination of central heating and the grandchildren being wise to the ways of the world. For them, Santa and his reindeer had been replaced by ‘Order by 5pm on 23rd December and we guarantee delivery for Christmas Eve.’ 

The family gathered at the dining room table, laid with the whitest table cloth and best china, for Christmas dinner had been usurped by a ten minute Skype with relatives in Australia and America.

The ordering of the turkey from Marks and Spencer, thawed and put in the oven the night before had been dropped in favour of a stuffed turkey crown, cooked from frozen in just one hour.

Mary knew that times had changed.  She was guilty of sending emails on her laptop, rather than writing and of texting her daughter from her mobile, in the middle of the supermarket, rather than waiting until she got home to call her from the landline. 
Mary listened to music from an MP3 player rather than rather putting a long play on the record player.  She cooked her porridge in the microwave in three minutes rather than having to stand over the stove stirring the oats in the pan, making sure they didn’t catch.

Yes, Mary had moved with the times and had been thankful for advances in modern technology and medicine over the years, especially when her beloved Frank had been diagnosed with lymphoma.

Frank had received the best care possible, with treatments that had given Mary hope and Frank a few months longer.  When the consultant had informed them that there was nothing more they could do and that Frank only had three weeks at best, Mary had sobbed in his arms and he had held her for as long and as tightly as he could.

In the hours before the end, when Mary had held Frank gently in her arms and asked him for one last thing, it had taken all his strength for him to whisper if he could, he would.

After Frank had gone, the long days and weeks turned into months and life went on.  It was soon December and Mary faced her 74th Christmas Eve without Frank.  Oh, tomorrow, the house would be full with family as they popped in for a flying visit.  They would take her with them back to their house for Christmas dinner. 

But that night, for the first time ever, Mary wrote out her Christmas wish by herself, with as much care and longing as she had done as a child.  She made sure the fire was burning bright.  She made sure the doors were shut so that no draught would aid her wish on its way.

Holding her breath, Mary gently threw the piece of paper into the fire and watched as the paper danced above the flames and very slowly began to rise.  Her Christmas wish was the same question she had asked Frank the day he died.  ‘If you can find a way, will you let me know you’re okay?’

As she watched the paper disappear up the chimney, tears welling in her eyes, she heard her mobile vibrating on the coffee table.  Sniffing back her tears, Mary picked up the phone and read the text, from a number she didn’t recognise.

‘I’m fine, girl xxx’

Mary smiled. She’d got her Christmas gift.