White Christmas

His postcards always came in, at least a day before its maximum. Together with the rest, what a bundle stacked higher than the bible, and filled with almost as much sorrow.

This time, it was a picture of him, holding some melted ice from the fridge of the barracks, lips smiling, with a simple scrawl at the bottom: “See, we’re both having a white christmas. –H”

Most of the time, I’m fine. When I wake up, for instance, I say hello to the hustle of the morning, as I wake Ricky up, before preparing toast and jam for breakfast. Then I’d get whisked off to work, and the day would plow on by. Everything will be a haze, all the way from driving home to having dinner with our son.

But it’s always the nights, when I prepare to snuggle into a king-sized bed, with nothing more than pillows, that it hurts. One would think the years would dull the birthdays, the christmases, the treasures; but instead of dulling, it sharpens the pain more, every year a reminder of being alone, of being with someone through nothing more than stacks of paper.

I had began by counting minutes when the truck came to pick him up. I counted hours, as I waited for his goodbye call. I waited days, while his squadron hasn’t been deployed. I’ve waited months, gnawing at my nails whenever the news played. I’ve waited years, and Ricky has grown from a waddling toddler to a young boy. He has his father’s nose.

Christmas eve and Ricky is snug into his bed, awaiting the surprises of the morning. I find myself getting drowsy, and I lay my hand on the stack of postcards bound tightly smiling atop your pillow.

——————-

This is the 100 Songs Project, a 100-day writing challenge based on AFI’s 100 Years…100 Songs. Every day, I write a short poem, prose piece, or play based on, reacting to, rejecting, accepting, or doing something related to one of the songs in the top 100 list.

Please consider liking Deelaytful on Facebook and following us on Twitter.

Advertisements