Children ran from room to room laughing. They circled the Christmas tree searching for those special gifts that had their names on it. Squealing with glee, they ran past my chair chasing each other. I set my knitting aside and smile at my mother. She is sitting in the overstuffed arm chair. Her white hair frames her face. She wore her red dress for the festivities at hand.
We are surrounded by family. My nose crinkles as the smell of the roasting turkey wafts into the room. The burning wood in the fireplace snaps. We don't speak.
My smile falters. I stand up. My mother looks at me. Her eyes are sad. I remember now.
I understand now that she cannot share the experience of the grandchildren’s' joy, cannot share the wonder of their growth, cannot share their love. They will never know her as I have known her.
My mother's image slowly fades away and disappears. She is not there.
She died years ago. I had forgotten her death.
I walk to the room where the children play and embrace their life.
The future is here now as I saw it before.Children running about with glee and so excited about the holidays. Gingerbread houses being eaten more than decorated, toys spread about, but no great grandparents to share their joy except from up above. I can't believe I wrote this four years ago. It seems like only yesterday.