Two Christmas stories

Written this Christmas Day, 25-12-2011, by Aileen Hayward

The 85th Christmas Day

She glanced at the time showing on her computer screen, 3.06am, 25th December, 2011. The first time in 85 years that she would spend Christmas day alone. Alone, that is for human companionship — her faithful dog lay curled up in his bed at the foot of the stairs. She smiled briefly through the tears, sure of her pet’s love and devotion in the face of this strange and foreign feeling of bereavement that now crept into her soul.

She had not had time to consider the situation; there had been no warning before she initiated the fateful phone call on Friday afternoon. The shock of hearing words that conveyed the cold and unfeeling attitude of complete indifference, a total disregard of a previous firm invitation to spend Christmas day with her son and his family. Unstable health prevented her from making any frantic dash for last minute provisions, and her fridge was now depleted and empty following pre Christmas visits by grandchildren and friends during the past week. A cheese sandwich would be the best she could manage for her Christmas dinner and even a cup of tea seemed dodgy as what milk was left showed signs of being ‘off’.

More urgent than that even, she noted that she was out of food for her beloved dog, and that indeed distressed her. Perhaps there were just a few dry kibbles left; she hoped that would suffice.

How happy, she remembered, the day she had purchased all the ingredients for an extravegant fruit cake to share with her son and his family on this anticipated Christmas day together. It had tested her depleted strength this year, mixing the double quantity heavy fruit content, but she had mixed away with firm intent to make this the best cake ever. Now, her son’s wife had blithely informed her, the cake would be taken to Coffs Harbour where they would share it with her father and his wife on Christmas day.

On her dining room table stood two boxes of festive holly patterned mugs, wrapped with love in Christmas paper, a gift for her son and his wife, again with the object of sharing a happy Christmas tea or coffee together. The parcel stood now, festively forsaken , testament to an empty promise and a breaking heart.

She was spinning a compact disc of Irish Celtic music and as the harpstrings played old tunes, memories of Christmas mornings past drifted into her mind. She smiled for a minute at the recall of a Christmas tree with four excited children opening gifts in the early morning light. Her eldest son, silver blonde hair glistening beneath a handsome cowboy hat, standing tall at the handlebars of his shining new scooter. His brown eyes were wide with the wonder of yet knowing that Santa Clause was real. She took great comfort in remembering how secure he had been in his knowledge of the total and unconditional love that was his birthright. How they had proven their devotion tohim as he grew into adolescence and their loving support had not wavered as he fought for survival in the emotional jungle of a disadvantaged and underprivileged neighborhood.

A sharp stab of pain in her lower back brought her rudely back to reality and she thought of the medications that awaited her in the bubble pack prepared by the local pharmacy. That was a blessing she must not overlook, count ones blessings today, and do not dwell on the small vicissitudes of life such as thoughtless children who found it unnecessary to explain in advance that there would be no Christmas welcome for her this year. And was it such a disaster, this oversight on their part? This indifference to her value ... the tears do not stop.

It is a strange and foreign experience to now tread the corridors of old age. What to expect is not really documented in detail. She had not considered that her kidneys would fail and was not equipped to deal with the consequences. It was her responsibility to recover as best she could and recover she did. Sometimes her blood would become infected, causing her mind to be vague. She annoyed others because her hearing was now impaired. Sometimes she would not have the energy to walk her loving friend, he who did not complain.

Her own birth so long ago had not been a happy and joyous occasion, rather, a sad and bitter experience for her unwed mother and an embarrassment and threat to her wayward father. She had been taken in by a compassionate woman and saved from life in a girls’ institution and that had been a blessing indeed. Yet, despite this unhappy start to life, today was the very first Christmas day in her 85 years that she had been forced to spend alone.

She glanced at the time now on her computer, 4.26 am. The Course in Miracles stood by her desk; she was up to lesson no. 46, one more time. Would re-learning the Miracles help her through this trauma? She does not know. She is well aware of the karmic law that states what goes around comes around and must ponder on her own attitudes towards that wonderful woman who became her caring adoptive mother. She could have been a far better and more attentive daughter; and feels remorseful for her own tardiness.

She is also aware of the reality of things. Wisdom explains how one is not so much disturbed by what occurs, but by one’s interpretation of that occurrence. The fact remains however, that she is indeed hurt and reduced to tears and is alone on this Christmas day in her 85th year. Again, philosophy suggests that what does not kill one makes one stronger. Right now, however, there is just inconsolable sadness.

She documents this experience in an effort to externalize and rationalize human emotion that cannot be rationalized. She wants relief, she wants to feel OK. She needs to love her children, she needs to remember that she is worthwhile in the face of being trivialized.

She is 85 not out, imperfect, loving and of not much consequence, yet not deserving of indifference. Perhaps she is the voice of many....


 Hello there

“Hello” he said “Merry Christmas Love”
His beer can wavering — unsteady hands.
I forced a smile and returned the words.
My voice betrayed me – my eyes grew wet.

“Hey, Darlin’ you shouldn’t be all alone
Down here at the beach, with your little dog”
“Oh, I’m O.K. thanks,” my voice shook more
And tears spilled over despite myself.

“Oh, now, Love, its Christmas, where are your folks?”
He glanced around and he drew a frown
“I wish my Mum was here today, you’re a lovely lady,
Now, don’t you cry.”

He asked me if he might give me a hug.
He wept on my shoulder, he sobbed and sobbed
And I dissolved into tears to match.
We sat there, a sorry, weeping mess.

His grief spilled over, his life so sad
Poured out in a torrent of pain and woe
And we wept together, this drunk and me
Bonded in sadness – the price of love.

My tears fall now as I pen these words
And remember his kindness, his need to share
And I will be better for having well met
This stranger who called me a ‘lovely lady'.