Glow

I stared at the lights blinking on the Christmas tree my parents helped me put up. They reflected off of the shiny wrapping paper and illuminated the sparkly bows that they had delicately tied on the gifts they’d dropped off earlier.

Dressed in my mismatching pajama top and bottoms, I rolled onto my stomach and stared into the depths of the branches, seeing the purple, white and silver bulbs barely hanging on.

Behind me, John tried and failed to quietly sneak downstairs. After padding across the worn carpeting he sat beside me cross-legged.

He stared into the abyss of our relationship probably making the same connections I was when comparing it to the tree we’d picked out together.

We were fakes, just like the tree was in our house. We pretended to be happy, just as the tree suggested we were in the holiday spirit. We smiled brightly and held hands despite not feeling that spark that once was between us as the glow of the lights symbolized the “happiness we felt” in our household.

“Dallas… It’s time for bed,” John whispered as the grandfather clock chimed in the next room.

I didn’t move, didn’t even blink at his words.

After a long moment of silence he sighed and went back upstairs to our bedroom, but not before shutting off the Christmas lights.