A silent wind disturbed the decaying leaves painting the grass with mute colors of brown and red. They were frigid and loud, demanding attention as if begging for anything to restore them back to their previous opulence. The saddest part of Christmas was watching everything slowly die, fading into absolute nothingness as the days feel shorter while the nights grow longer and more unbearing.
But there was the rose in my hand, still vibrant with life in the bright, pristine red that coated its delicate petals. A luscious green stem stood in stark contrast to the pale, wrinkled skin of my hand, fingers bony and unforgiving as they held tightly to life. And if you listened for long enough, you could hear the wailing from grieving mothers and fathers, wives and husbands, sisters and brothers as they settled on their knees to take their watch over the ones who have grown disenchanted with life.
I lifted a hand, reaching out to gently trace over the carved letters of his name, following the intricate curves and edges. And it never got any easier, coming out here to join the others as they remembered what they had lost. Nights full of laughter, sweet smiles, and joyful tears as memories formed themselves for us to hold onto tightly with every fibre of our being.
Because that’s all we had left when it was time to let go.
“All I want for Christmas is you,” I whispered to the fading day, carefully
placing the rose on top of the hard ground which stoically separated the living from the dead. “I miss you all the time.”
It was always hard to leave, but there would be more Christmases left to mourn his loss, remembering the way he looked at me before taking his final breath.
