A Christmas Scene

         ‘Twas the night before Christmas. The fireplace crackled and popped incessantly, emitting comfortably warmth throughout the living room; flames licked the logs then engulfed them, and sparks waltzed around the blaze. The crackling broke the silence with each burst of noise.

         Beautiful china ornaments lined the mantelpiece; hand-painted figures, holding pink umbrellas or clutching their beloved. The coffee table, a perfect rich shade of oak brown, glinted in the firelight. Sat upon this piece of furniture sat a record player, the needle worn with frequent use, a record still on the tray, still and quiet.

         Boxes of all different sizes, wrapped in shimmering golden paper, waited upon the thick burgundy carpet. Slick ribbons, embroidered with silver thread, all tied in perfect bows held the presents together. Each gift had been wrapped by delicate, skilled hands.

         The Christmas tree dwarfed the other furniture, standing tall and proud, spreading its arms and shedding its needles. The fairy lights twinkled in the most beautiful shades of gold and light blue and icy white, and the ruffled tinsel clothed each branch, while baubles hung off each finger, reflecting the perfect image of the log fire.

         On the oak table, a slender glass filled almost, but not quite, to the brim with fresh, warmed milk stood, accompanied by three chunky cookies on a porcelain plate. A letter, hurriedly written on a piece of paper torn from a notebook, lay concealed by the plate, and read just three short sentences:

         Dear Santa, I hope you enjoy these treats I prepared for you... chocolate chip, your favourite. It’s been three years since it all happened. So now, I shall sit in my armchair, with Frank Sinatra on the record player, and fall asleep to the sound of the fire crackling, and fall in love with Christmas again.

         The blizzard still howled outside as the sun crept over the hills. The fireplace smouldered, now a pile of black ash, with the odd surviving twig. The presents remained wrapped with the same shimmering golden paper, and the fairy lights still twinkled in the most beautiful shades of gold and light blue and icy white. And in the armchair, nestled down in the crimson pillow, sat a body. Ivy crawled over the house walls. The hole in the rotting roof let in daylight. The body remained peaceful, still in the same position it had fallen asleep in.

         On the oak table, an empty slender glass stood, accompanied by a porcelain plate adorned with a few scattered crumbs. The letter, no longer concealed by the plate, read the three short sentences written by a stranger. Beneath the hurriedly written scrawl, read two words written in neat handwriting: Thank you.