Christmases With Dad

The smell of pine needles is everywhere, but it doesn't bring the usual warmth. It just reminds me of all the Christmases with Dad. He always insisted on the real tree, the one that smelled so strongly of the forest. He'd spend hours decorating it, humming carols off-key, while Mom would bake cookies and I'd string popcorn garlands. 

 

This year, the tree looks so pathetic. The tinsel is all droopy, like it's mourning too. Mom barely touched the decorations. She just keeps staring out the window. Her face is a mask of grief. I can practically hear the gears grinding in her head, trying to force a smile and pretend everything is normal. But the festive music playing in the background only amplifies the silence where his laughter should be. 

 

I went to Dad's study earlier. It feels so empty without him. The air is thick with the ghost of his pipe—the one he always smoked while reading. It's still perched on his desk, which now is covered in dust. I picked it up, and the familiar smell of tobacco almost sent me reeling. The half-finished chess game sits frozen on the board. Tears cascaded down my face like winter rain, blurring the well-worn contours of the room. Oh, why does the world insist on its relentless pursuit of joy? For me, Christmas has become a gaping wound.

 

I sank to the floor. My knees drawn up to my chest. The world outside seems a million miles away. In this quiet sanctuary of grief, I don't want to celebrate. Christmas feels more like a cruel, inescapable tomb, burying my joy beneath its icy grip.

 

Then the radio switched to a slower song that strangely comforted me. I closed my eyes, allowing the music to wash over me. But I wish I could feel something other than this aching emptiness.