Mark On the Wall

A Merry Little Christmas

Dear ----,

Christmas is near. Garland is wrapped around the staircase; the tree is festooned in white lights and snowmen ornaments, while a glut of brightly wrapped presents sit beneath, waiting to be opened. The scent of pine and berry radiates from the candle on the dining room table, and a fire, bustling golden-orange, warms the house. There are Christmas cards, mint chocolates, and candy canes-- not to mention the other knick-knacks decked about to celebrate the holiday, but with all the bliss, I still feel that something is missing.

I sit on the sofa, and moments like this-- when I am quite alone-- are moments made for sipping wassail and burrowing into the thickness of a comfy blanket. It requires a book, too. Woolf, Plath-- maybe Lawrence. I am undecided. Mostly caught up in thoughts that have nothing to do with anything, but the slight twitch in my stomach, the uneven cadence of my heart says that maybe…maybe it has to do with everything.

I want to tell you.

If you sit here-- just right here, next to me, I will, too.

I will tell you everything without saying anything, because all you will do is look at me, and you’ll know what I cannot form into words-- what does not feel right to utter out loud. We will smile and laugh, and whatever dialogue finally breaks the surface will be indistinct, as it has always been…coded to our sole understanding.

You are not here, though.

You are, in fact, what is missing.

posted by Mckenzie @ 18.12.06