tagNon-EroticJingle Bells ....

Jingle Bells ....


It's cold. I put on my bunny slippers and walk down towards the window to part the drapes. Snow like cumulus clouds covers every inch of the street outside, icicles hang from naked branches bearing them down. Somewhere in the distance, the Sun has set, said good-bye to another day.

On my desk, christmas cards still inside their envelopes, wait to be opened by a stranger.

But in my mind there is hardly the Christmas spirit. I do not feel moved by the birth of Christ, the Savior Son, seperated as we were at birth by several thousand years. Even Santa whom I love for his white beard, big belly, and 'ho! ho! ho!' the spitting image of God, seems like a figment of my imagination.

Ian has left me an invitation, anyway. A chance to go to Christmas Mass, sing in praise of everything I cannot put real words to and oh! I love it so!

I love him, I really do, but I wish he weren't such as a church-goer. I am terribly afraid of loud organs in large closed spaces. Almost spooky it felt the last time I went.

'8am. See you there', it says on the note.

But I didn't go. You know me. I never keep appointments that I make. Especially not at 8am to go to someone's cult gathering when it's 20 degrees outside and I can be warm and asleep.

You left a message on the phone. Usually when you leave a message there is a nice ring to your voice, something loving the way it teases as it says, 'See you soon'.

But none of that today. The christian zealot is mad I did not attend the Mass to thank the God who saved his very life from the hands of cancer.

I went there once, though. To pray. I had teary eyes and a nice dagger through my heart and it helped me to beg a lot. And miraculously a week later the doctor said you had five more years.

I thanked God...

It's been four years since then, and you know I know it's time to start begging again. But Ian, I don't think it will help.

The coffee is getting cold like it always does when I'm typing away at my computer. You never seem to mind though, wrapped up in your own thoughts as you ask, 'Want another cup?'

How different we are and how quiet the same. Your detachment almost complimentary to mine, even after all these years. Should we call it love? Why not? Yes, you always have a funny way of putting things, too.

You're funny. You always have a way of putting a smile on my face, knowing exactly how to pull my leg, massage my ego or perhaps break my heart. For a long time I didn't know what it felt like to be without you.

But now Ian. We are alone. And soon it will all stop. No more greeting cards. No more me nor you. So stop thanking some poor man who got nailed to death some thousands of years ago!

You always laugh at the way I throw away greeting cards without opening them. They don't serve a purpose, you know, and I prefer to hear people call on the telephone.

This year, your Mother cancelled all her plans to be with you. How people make plans when their families distance them! The two of you probably had a moment alone at Mass. Mother and son, too long apart.

We sold all our furniture this weekend, and you were mad. Beds, bookshelves, sofas, carpets, nothing that ever made sense, I was glad to do it. Now we have two sleeping bags which, when you lay them one on top of the other, are just as good as any $3000 luxury bed. The books are fine against the bare walls. And I love the sight of the wooden floors.

You didn't talk to me when I told you at the hospital, but you know I won't be needing things anymore. I never did, though you did and so we had them.

I could not part with the TV or my computer though. But I must admit that listening to music makes me very nostalgic and I am tempted to lose it.

How is the view from the hospital bed? Is it like mine? Fantastical like a Christmas Card? Reminiscent of snow fights and snow mans and things we did when we were smaller?

It's late and the bath is running and calling me to it like it always does when I am tired.

Sleep well Ian! Perhaps tomorrow we will be together.

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