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Authors: Patricia Scanlan
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your Christmas tree. If I can be of any use at
all, I’d be delighted to help out.’
‘That’s very kind of you,’ I said, ‘but I left it too late to buy one now. There’ll only be rubbish left. I’ve always put up a real tree. My late husband had
no truck with artificial ones. When I saw the one you have lit up in your garden I got a little nostalgic for one, that’s all. But thank you very much for offering, Simon.’
‘No trouble at all.’ He smiled. He had a lovely lopsided smile, just like John had. He waved from the gate and I waved back, warmed by his and Sarah’s kindness. Just before
tea, there was a knock at my door. Simon was there, with
the
most beautiful, perfectly shaped Christmas tree. The scent of it brought back such memories. I felt a terrible pang of
loneliness for my beloved husband. The passing years have not eased the sense of loss; at times like Christmas I miss John more than ever. But Simon looked so pleased with himself I hid my sadness
from him and opened the door wide.
‘I have some lights too, in case all yours aren’t working,’ he told me eagerly, all ready to start decorating.
I was overwhelmed as he set to, positioning it in the bay window, turning it this way and that for the best angle to show off its glory. Sarah came to help and between us we decorated it from
the big box of baubles I had in the attic. They devoured the slices of the baked ham I served them, on thick Vienna roll slathered in butter, which we ate under the luminous glow of the tree, with
the fire crackling and flickering in the grate.
The tree was magnificent, the soft reds, blues, silver and greens of the lanterns reflecting on the baubles as they glistened and shimmered. Despite my feelings of loss and sadness, I was
delighted to have a decorated tree and very touched by my young neighbours’ kindness. I sat up until late, admiring it after they had gone. And only when the glow of the embers had dulled to
dusty grey did I go to bed.
‘Nana you have a
real
tree!’ My grandchildren were ecstatic when they called on Christmas Eve. They have an artificial tree at home. My daughter has neither the time nor the
patience to vacuum up pine needles. The children oohhed and aahhhed, their joyful faces reflected in the shining decorations that swung gaily from the branches. I was reminded of my own children
when they were young. Simple pleasures are still the best.
‘Mum, I would have put it up for you,’ Charlotte, my daughter, chided.
‘I wanted to surprise you,’ I fibbed. ‘Simon and Sarah from next door got it and we put it up together. It was a nice way of getting to know them.’
‘How kind!’ she exclaimed. ‘It’s beautiful, just like the ones Dad used to put up.’ We squeezed hands as grief shadowed us momentarily. ‘I was thinking, I
could cook dinner here, if you’d like?’ she’d offered. ‘Then we’d all be together. And we could enjoy the tree.’
‘Perfect!’ I was
delighted
with the suggestion. Christmas in my own home after all these years. What could be nicer? I slept like a log that night in my own comfy bed, and
looked forward to going to Mass on Christmas morning with my grandchildren, and seeing the crib.
‘Mum must have had an inkling,’ I hear Charlotte say to Sarah and Simon. ‘She was so insistent on staying at home this year.’ I gaze down at them as
they follow the coffin into the church. My darling John is by my side here, and we watch together as relatives and friends crowd into our small village church.
I have never been happier. I am young and carefree again. The New Year is one day old. The Christmas lights shimmer in windows around the village, incandescent in the deepening, snowy gloom. My
tree glows brightest of all. Charlotte was determined to have it lit for me.
They’ve given me a terrific funeral. It’s the hymns that have started them all crying.
Here I am, Lord, it is I, Lord. I have heard you calling in the night.
It
all, I’d be delighted to help out.’
‘That’s very kind of you,’ I said, ‘but I left it too late to buy one now. There’ll only be rubbish left. I’ve always put up a real tree. My late husband had
no truck with artificial ones. When I saw the one you have lit up in your garden I got a little nostalgic for one, that’s all. But thank you very much for offering, Simon.’
‘No trouble at all.’ He smiled. He had a lovely lopsided smile, just like John had. He waved from the gate and I waved back, warmed by his and Sarah’s kindness. Just before
tea, there was a knock at my door. Simon was there, with
the
most beautiful, perfectly shaped Christmas tree. The scent of it brought back such memories. I felt a terrible pang of
loneliness for my beloved husband. The passing years have not eased the sense of loss; at times like Christmas I miss John more than ever. But Simon looked so pleased with himself I hid my sadness
from him and opened the door wide.
‘I have some lights too, in case all yours aren’t working,’ he told me eagerly, all ready to start decorating.
I was overwhelmed as he set to, positioning it in the bay window, turning it this way and that for the best angle to show off its glory. Sarah came to help and between us we decorated it from
the big box of baubles I had in the attic. They devoured the slices of the baked ham I served them, on thick Vienna roll slathered in butter, which we ate under the luminous glow of the tree, with
the fire crackling and flickering in the grate.
The tree was magnificent, the soft reds, blues, silver and greens of the lanterns reflecting on the baubles as they glistened and shimmered. Despite my feelings of loss and sadness, I was
delighted to have a decorated tree and very touched by my young neighbours’ kindness. I sat up until late, admiring it after they had gone. And only when the glow of the embers had dulled to
dusty grey did I go to bed.
‘Nana you have a
real
tree!’ My grandchildren were ecstatic when they called on Christmas Eve. They have an artificial tree at home. My daughter has neither the time nor the
patience to vacuum up pine needles. The children oohhed and aahhhed, their joyful faces reflected in the shining decorations that swung gaily from the branches. I was reminded of my own children
when they were young. Simple pleasures are still the best.
‘Mum, I would have put it up for you,’ Charlotte, my daughter, chided.
‘I wanted to surprise you,’ I fibbed. ‘Simon and Sarah from next door got it and we put it up together. It was a nice way of getting to know them.’
‘How kind!’ she exclaimed. ‘It’s beautiful, just like the ones Dad used to put up.’ We squeezed hands as grief shadowed us momentarily. ‘I was thinking, I
could cook dinner here, if you’d like?’ she’d offered. ‘Then we’d all be together. And we could enjoy the tree.’
‘Perfect!’ I was
delighted
with the suggestion. Christmas in my own home after all these years. What could be nicer? I slept like a log that night in my own comfy bed, and
looked forward to going to Mass on Christmas morning with my grandchildren, and seeing the crib.
‘Mum must have had an inkling,’ I hear Charlotte say to Sarah and Simon. ‘She was so insistent on staying at home this year.’ I gaze down at them as
they follow the coffin into the church. My darling John is by my side here, and we watch together as relatives and friends crowd into our small village church.
I have never been happier. I am young and carefree again. The New Year is one day old. The Christmas lights shimmer in windows around the village, incandescent in the deepening, snowy gloom. My
tree glows brightest of all. Charlotte was determined to have it lit for me.
They’ve given me a terrific funeral. It’s the hymns that have started them all crying.
Here I am, Lord, it is I, Lord. I have heard you calling in the night.
It
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