Eighty-Seven Christmases

Three stoic figures line his table, a sort of lifeless company for the evening. The first was darkly handsome, and when pressed to the lips, tasted of sweetness. The other two where nought but empty vessels now, though several hours ago they glinted against the street lights flickering through the window in their translucence. As he uncorked the final bottle of wine, he briefly wished his company was more animated, and certainly more human.

Some of us spend Christmas alone, tragically stuck within the memories of a photo album. Unable to live our lives with any sort of decency, we retreat to pictures proving that, at one time, we understood how to grasp happiness. He looks at photos dotted with balloons and candles, smiles and brightly wrapped gifts. With a quivering finger, he traces the outline of his mother's face. Though the photograph is worn and faded, his mind rewrites the missing details of his mother's warm cheeks and forgiving eyes. He hears the customary chanting of birthday songs, and though his hair has greyed, and his muscles atrophied, he once again feels nine years old.

The jarring buzz of the door bell breaks days worth of silence, as visitors wait on his porch. Carolers have arrived to his neighborhood to spread holiday cheer, and he knows he will not invite them in, nor hear their song. His door remains shut and locked, and he sits unmoved within his chair and unmoved within his heart.

Some of us spend Christmas alone.