As Christmas draws near, in the shadowed corner of a dark room sits a lonely character. Head in hands, solemn in appearance.
A closer look shows that the forlorn figure is male. Photos and pieces of paper are scattered round him, words running together into one.
‘Its all my fault’ I hear him whisper under his breath, over and over.
One piece of paper stands out. Its more pictures than words, but I can see ‘Daddy’ clearly. On the same piece of paper there is a family of three drawn – next to Daddy is ‘Mummy’, and between them is a small child with a smiling face, wearing the largest grin I have ever seen.
Next to the tear stained letter is an official looking document – ‘Leave Granted’ in big red letters embossed across the hard to make out text on the page.
‘If only the weather could change…...snow…....go…..’ Something I have heard a lot of recently, but this person is surrounded by heat. ‘This is going to take some working out’ I think to myself slowly.
As my snow globe takes me outside the room, I see sand and wasteland, but no reason to change the weather.
Back into the room, I see a name tag on the males clothes – Sgt. Miles. I turn to Mr Claus and say ‘Its time we speak with Mother Nature – we have a very important person to bring Christmas to’.

As I sat down in the chair. The lights on the tree seemed to wink at me as if to say, ‘you deserve a warm glass of brandy’. Having the approval of the tree made me smile. That had been the last thing we bought before my darling husband had returned to Afghanistan. They had let him come home for the birth of our fourth baby, and after several delays he had arrived a day before the birth. That had been four weeks ago and now it was Christmas night and all the celebrations were over.
We always had a real tree. Searching the forest for the perfect one had become a pre Christmas family ritual, but we had decided that an artificial one would be easier for me this year. The children had enjoyed decorating it, while I sat and fed their new sister. Being artificial seemed to go with this year’s celebration.
There had been many presents underneath it. I looked towards the tree now, where several still remained with his name on. These I could either send in a comfort parcel or leave until his return in March.
My left hand went automatically to the sapphire on the chain around my neck, an early Christmas present from him, and the reason for our newborn daughter’s name Sapphira. I raised my glass of brandy to toast the tree.
“Merry Christmas darling. Come home safe. Your little family loves you.”

Paradoxical notions filled Carol’s head as the face of her watch glared eight pm. ‘Is it still Christmas day?’ She mused, ‘Christmas night-day perhaps?’ Her watch seemed to flare in response.

It was a short walk home from her parent’s house, where she had spent yet another Christmas. The night air was crisp and her breath resembled that of Puff the Magic Dragon’s from her favourite childhood book; which had nursed her through both the chickenpox and bouts of earache. The song began to resonate in her head and her footsteps fell into rhythm.

Nothing much had changed in a year, except her parent’s comments about, ‘Happiness’ and ‘Meeting Mr. Right,’ becoming more poignant. There was that word again….’Happiness’, that indescribable adjective that seemed to mean everything to everyone, yet remained elusive and unquantifiable.

As she neared her home in Cherry Lane, she contemplated the rest of her evening alone in her flat…a luxurious bubble bath perhaps… and this song in her head…then she noticed movement outside her door.

He smiled warmly. Her puzzled look gave way to his obvious predicament of trying to alert the attention of his partying friends in the neighbouring flat. She opened the communal door as he introduced himself and invited her to join him. She checked her watch as if to postpone an immediate decision. With the song still looping in her head, she muttered defiantly, “It is still Christmas day!”
“Jack, happy to meet you,” he continued, “I live near the sea”...

“It’s turkey,” Marian said, stifling a sigh.

“Turkey? How am I gonna chew turkey with these bloody things?” Charlie Parker picked up his false teeth and waved them at her.

“Well, it’d be a whole lot easier if you actually put them in.”

Charlie slung them back into the pot and pushed his plate away. “You hospital nurses. You think just ‘cos it’s Christmas we’ve all gotta be in the festive spirit. Well I aint gonna be anytime soon so you can just sod off.”

Marian withdrew from his bedside, retaining her smile with enormous effort. ‘I’ll be back in a few minutes. I’ve just got to check on Mr Bartholomew.’

“That old coot? You do that, and take that soddin’ turkey with you.”

After confirming that Mr Bartholomew was comfortable, Marian slipped into the staffroom and shut the door. The Christmas tree had fallen over yet again, shedding baubles like pine cones. She didn’t bother to pick it up. What was the point?

Two minutes quiet, that was all she needed.

Charlie Parker wasn’t moving as she trudged back toward him. His head drooped forward. His bony arm hung limp. Both his dinner and his teeth were untouched.

Without fuss, Marian closed the curtains. She checked his pulse and his breathing. She found nothing
.
“Merry Christmas, you old coot,” she said as she picked at a sliver of turkey. If there was ever a perk to be had for working Christmas day, this certainly wasn’t it.

My annual pilgrimage to Granddad’s grave on Christmas Day brought back memories when I was twelve, and he was the centre of attraction, as usual, at our house.

Whenever we met he turned the conversation with, ‘Did I ever tell you ‘bout the time I won the MM?’ Christmas was no different, and he always excited me with his tale of charging a machine gun post in 1917.

Mum and Dad cooked a superb Turkey lunch with Granddad demanding more of everything, then retiring to an armchair and falling asleep, leaving us with Mum’s brothers; Uncle Ross, aloof and a wealthy accountant, and Uncle Albert a down to earth postman.

That year, Uncle Albert told me about life as a soldier fighting in Korea, with the bitter cold on Christmas Day, only Granddad’s snoring disturbing the tension.

Uncle Ross tottered towards us, the worse for drink, and slurred his story of adventures as a National Serviceman, fighting the Communists in Malaya and surviving an ambush.

‘Wow!’ I said, not knowing he’d been a hero, and wondered about the silence in the room until Granddad stirred. He burped, and pointed an accusing finger at Uncle Ross.

‘You never went to bloody Malaya. You were in the bloody Army Pay Corps at Aldershot.’

You could have heard a pin drop as Granddad leaned back in his armchair, and a smile wreathed his face as, with a contented sigh, he passed out of this world.

So enjoyed your Xmas Round Robin that I thought I’d reply this year! I know you don’t usually have time to write individual letters with your busy lifestyle, but I do.

Always look forward to hearing about your holidays. Macau, Vietnam, Colorado… and now Sorrento! So wise to stick closer to home this year. Though of course now Steve has ‘retired’ so suddenly, you’ll have more time to travel.

What news of Matty at Imperial? Didn’t he graduate this year? With a First, I’m sure, as anticipated. Surprised you haven’t mentioned him. But lovely news that Katrina’s having a baby – didn’t realise she was married!

So you’re down-sizing? Good idea! Who needs all those rooms to look after at our age, and that enormous garden? Bognor sounds lovely – much less crowded than Padstow or Salcombe.

I can see it’s been a busy old year for you. Nothing much changes at this end. We’ve been on holiday a couple of times (Cambodia – have you done Cambodia?), Jeremy got his First from Kings (he and Matty should celebrate together!). John’s move up to Senior Partner so is away a lot, but seems happy. Oh – and we’ve bought a boat!

But enough about me. Hopefully this year, now neither of you are working and the children are busy with other things, you’ll have much more time for letter writing. Do send news.

Though I’m afraid I may only be able to manage a Round Robin next year.

I’d always felt that Christmas was synonymous with happiness. As a child I had somehow managed to convince my warring parents that there could be no quarrels then or on any family birthdays. I even held to my right to stay up till midnight to savour the armistice like the mud drenched soldiers in Flanders several wars ago.
The phone rang. Someone wishing me Happy Christmas, I thought. I picked up the receiver from the table strewn with tinsel and cards.
‘I’m so sorry. John is dead. He killed himself last night.’
There was no Christmas. I wept with friends, for whom, also, this festival of life was blighted. I remember little of that now, although Christmas is still haunted by absence. Mostly I remember the funeral and the absence of blue flowers. The winter is not kind to blue flowers and all I wanted was some small blue flowers to place on his grave. No logic, I know, but where does logic come into it when Solovey-Razboynik has cursed the road to Kiev by the black crossroads?
That year Kiev was in deepest Devon, all the grasses were frozen and woven to bar the way and the blue flowers bowed down their heads.
Now Christmas is synonymous with loss and the absence of blue flowers.

We roam the land freely, mixing with others who have no names. They are the same as us, yet different. Young and innocent, they know nothing of our jobs.

Every December, farmers round us up. My friends and I know better than to object, so we head North willingly. The others suffer, as they resist when the men try to herd them.

We are all kept together in a large field for a short time. Then the sorting begins. We head towards the gate on the right. The nameless are separated from us and guided to the left of the field. We will never see them again.

I sometimes wonder where the young end up. As they guide them through the gate, the men talk of markets and sales, laughing and rubbing their hands together.

My friends and I pass through our gate sedately and see a glow in the distance. We are heading home again. We walk up the familiar track, and enter a paddock near the homestead ready for two weeks of feeding and grooming. We are treated like returning heroes, greeted by the Mistress with warmth and affection. She will spend much time with us during our stay. The Master is usually too busy to visit us until the most important night of the year when we are harnessed up to the sleigh to earn our living.

He remembered her childish excitement as she’d spotted the swathes of deep, violet tinsel glistening in the store. ‘We must have some!’ she’d insisted. He’d tried to object but she wasn’t listening. She never listened anymore. He’d struggled to carry the awkward assortment of metallic baubles and coloured beads and flashing LED lights which she’d selected, and he’d sighed dejectedly as she’d stuffed the purple garlands into his already laden arms.
‘These will look perfect together’ she’d trilled. ‘Trust me.’
He’d found her fascination for all things shiny, endearing in the early years, but now, it had begun to frustrate and even anger him. Chandeliers in every room in the house; dust-catchers. A diamond ring from their weekend in Amsterdam; he’d had other things planned for that trip. Cut glass handles on the drawers – resentment stored away. Lead crystal, drinking glasses – sorrows drowned. Mirrors of all shapes and sizes, adorning every wall – reflections of his disillusionment.
Sitting here now, in the darkened living room, with just the lights from the tree twinkling, and the baubles twirling, and the coloured beads dangling; swilling champagne from his tacky ‘Ho Ho Ho’ mug; he mulled over how she would frown upon his choice of drinking vessel – but at the same time he comforted himself with the knowledge that she would entirely approve of the violet, tinsel necklace which he’d wrapped ever so tightly around her slim, white throat – he had to agree – they all looked perfect together.

Old broken man carries boxes
past a crowd he’s trying to ignore.
He turns, faces them, surveying.
Children of all ages approach him.
They see things never noticed before:
gut hanging over belt,
tobacco-stained beard, before always white as snow
he traveled with.

Waits until crowd gets restless,
raises hand,
speaks,
“It’s true.
I’ve quit my job. You can all go home,
There will be no changing my mind.”

Old man turns from crowd
but crowd stays still.
“But why, Santa?” middle-aged
man from back calls.
Santa turns, looks at man,
sits on car bumper, thinking.
“Why?” chuckles.

“Because I’m tired of busting my butt for other people.
Because I get thousands of letters asking for presents but no thank you notes.
Because everyone leaves milk and cookies when I want beer and steak.
Because the job has no benefits, no health insurance, no 401k.
Because animal rights folks have been harassing me about working the reindeer.
Because the elves want a union.
Because Fisher Price offered $5 million for the toy factory.”
He pauses, waits for response,
crowd silent.

“And because the tricks you kids are pulling to catch me
are getting more dangerous every year,”
he adds to soften the mood, no luck.
“So that’s it,” says turning back to boxes.

Little girl step forward,
tugs on old man’s sweatshirt.
“But what will happen to Christmas?” asks, voice cracking.
He looks at her, guilt climbing through stomach.
“I don’t know.” Says, “I don’t know.