Jane looked out of the window. It was typical of December, when daylight had been reluctant to put in an appearance, and dusk seemed to start just after lunch.
She looked at the clock on the mantelpiece. They would soon be here to collect her; to whisk her off to join in their festivities. She wished they wouldn�t bother; she was quite content in her little sitting room, surrounded by all she was familiar with. It wasn�t much, but it was home, and here is where she would rather be at this time of year.
They always tried their best; tried to accommodate her, but fitting into their family situation was awkward and if she was honest, Len�s three children could be boisterous � almost too much.
She hadn�t always felt this way, and her mind drifted back to happier times; when John was alive. Len and Tom, his younger brother would be so excited as the build up to Christmas began. There were presents to buy, trimmings to hang, a tree lit with pretty twinkling lights. It was a busy time; all that baking, and the turkey to roast. This was her time, and everything had to be just perfect.
On Christmas Eve, when Len and Tom had finally been persuaded to go to bed, she would bring the presents from their hiding places the attic, and on top of their wardrobe. Together with John, they would wrap as best they could, the many odd shaped packages, finishing off with bows and tags. The finished items would be put into bolster cases, and later, John would creep upstairs and place them at the foot of the boy�s beds.
Finally, with everything done, they would sit in the glow of the fire, and reflect on the past year. John would hover a sprig of mistletoe and kiss her gently on the lips.
�Happy Christmas Darling�, He would whisper softly.
He wasn�t the romantic type, but this ritual would be performed every Christmas Eve � his stab at affection, but to her, it was the only words she wanted to hear.
The door bell rang and the sound of happy children broke the spell. She would go around to Len�s, and join in the fun, and later when they brought her back home, she would sit by the coal fire and watch the shadows dance around the room. Happy memories would return. This would be her Christmas.
Phil. Dewhurst
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