Light It Up

Francesca sat in the living room, curled up on the couch with a blanket wrapped around her legs and a glass of mulled wine in one hand. The other hand was running itself through her hair in a distracted manner, quite unlike the quaint scene around her. The Christmas tree was twinkling softly, the lights all different colours, casting red, green, yellow, orange and blue flashes on the walls like quick bursts of bright paint. The presents, all wrapped up in glossy paper and tied with silky red and purple ribbons, were nestled under it, their foil reflecting the colourful lights even more. The stockings hanging over the fireplace were all full, all four of them, even though this made Francesca fill up.

The stocking next to hers belonged to her husband, Antony. Her presents from him, and the presents for their two children, had arrived in an Army-issued postal box and was covered in stamps, both US and military. It had travelled all the way from Afghanistan, and all Francesca wanted was her husband to do the same. But, she knew he couldn’t, and so this was the second Christmas she and the children would spend without him. Harriet, who was four year old, had finally noticed that everyone else’s daddies were home for Christmas. Rory, who was seven, had noticed last year, and was even more distressed about it this year. He had asked Santa for a hug from his Daddy in his letter this year, and Francesca’s heart ached as she realized that it was the one thing on her son’s list she couldn’t give to him. She knew it was the one thing he wanted the most, too.

She watched the Christmas lights twinkling in their pattern until she knew what they were going to do. There was a long flash, then a short one, then a rapid one where the lights did what they wanted for a while and it was a kaleidoscope of Christmas colour. Then it calmed down again, back to its rhythmic fading from one colour to another. She closed her eyes, the bright balls of light splashing themselves across the black canvas of her eyelids, and she pictured her husband’s face. She pictured it so clearly, and she wished harder than ever before that a miracle could happen. She saw it on the news and it made her heart ache – soldiers coming home from war and not saying anything until they turned up on the doorstep of their beaming mother or sobbing wife. Francesca knew that they didn’t say anything in case the leave was cancelled, and she prayed this was the case. Antony had said he had been trying to get home, using the denial of last year’s leave to his advantage. However, times were tougher than even in Afghanistan and Francesca had to understand that if his company and his country needed him, Antony had to answer them.

Still, Francesca’s eyes brimmed with tears as she thought about the fact that she needed him, and so did Harriet and Rory.

When she opened her eyes the tears were smearing the colours across the room s though the air was a giant, invisible canvas. The colours blurred into long lines and Francesca blinked until they cleared and she could see all of the individual, twinkling lights again. Outside, the snow was falling once more, drifting lazily to the ground. Francesca smiled, in spite of the situation, and went to the window. There was no wind tonight, and so the snowflakes were free to fall as they wished, dancing with one another as they slowly made their way to the ground, settling on top of what was already there.

Francesca laughed as she remembered the snowman the children had made earlier in the day, laughing and giggling and they added bum cheeks to it and then looking shiftily over to see if their mother had noticed. Of course, Francesca had let them have their fun. It was Christmas Eve, after all. Her smile faltered, however, as she saw something about the snowman had changed, and it was the shock of this that made her stop in her tracks.

Setting the glass of mulled wine down, she squinted through the glass panes that were reflecting the Christmas lights so wonderfully, and struggled to work out what was on the snowman.

It was a hat.

An Army-issued hat.

Her husband’s company’s hat.

Francesca’s logic was shouting at her to not get her hopes up, but she already had. She felt herself jump and practically leave the ground as she squealed with excitement and ran to the front door. Fumbling with the lock, she pulled it open, the snow fluttering to the ground around her, and there was Antony, about to unlock the door, his big duffel bag on the ground beside him. He looked up, smiled, and Francesca screamed again and leapt at him, throwing her arms around him. He lifted her right off of the floor and spun her around, and when they kissed one another it had never tasted so sweet.

As they embraced, a sound came from behind them, and they looked into the house to see a sleepy Rory, holding little Harriet’s hand, obviously awoken by his mother’s screams. However, the usual grumpy look he wore when he was awoken suddenly vanished, and it made both Francesca and Antony fill up with tears to see their children’s faces lighting up so beautifully with excitement. Hand in hand, the siblings charged down the stairs and into their father’s arms.

The four of them stayed on the doorstep for a while, laughing and sobbing, as the snow came down around them. As her husband softly kissed her head, Francesca was glad she had followed her own mother’s advice, and never stopped believing in Christmas miracles.