Well here we go. One more day. I can’t
wait. I can’t wait to feel excited and thrilled and passionate about something
again. I can’t wait for the moment of despair that will inevitably come. And I
can’t wait for the moment when I will push past it, and write on, and on and
on. I can’t wait for the rush of words pouring in a steady wave from my head
and my heart all the way into my fingers and onto a page of pure madness that
only I can understand.
I just can’t wait.
And lucky for me, I don’t have to.
Because in less than an hour, it will be here.
Okay, well here is a quick little blurb
of a story to go with this because I’m actually not going to stay up until
midnight (I know, bad Laura!) I need to rest up so the rest of the month
can be spent in glorious writing bliss.
~*~
Snow falls softly as I stare out the
window into the white glow of radiant winter wonderland. I sigh, remembering.
The way he smiled comes back and hits me like a blast of that icy air. And I
feel my throat tighten in spite of my resolve. Christmas is different this
year.
“You want some hot chocolate?” Mom
calls from her post at the cupboard. Eyes roving, she spies what she wants and
pounces like the red fox going after a mouse. I nod. It’s almost dark out, now
that the days end before five o’clock. It is an eerie symptom of winter in the
Northwest, and I’ll never really grow used to it, no matter how long I live
here. But the tree’s magical glow softens the gloom a bit, even though every
ornament is a reminder. Mom hands me my steaming cup of cocoa, its delectable
aroma slipping through my nose and into my mouth.
“Thanks.” I say quietly. She says
nothing.
We say nothing together and are content
just to stare out into the cold and the growing darkness and remember when
things were different.
A barrage of barking breaks the silence
as my three Corgis yipe excitedly. Their noise startles me and a sizzling
splash of creamy chocolate falls like snow on my lap. My dad is home. He says
nothing too as he comes in and shakes the winter frosting from his shoes. His every
movement is draped with heaviness.
Things used to be different. I miss my
daddy’s smiles.
Before someone would have been sure to
say, “Well who’s excited for Christmas tomorrow?” or “What are we having with
the ham?” or “When will Aunt Lily and Uncle Jake get here?” But now we say
nothing. No one wants to remember that tomorrow is Christmas and no one has any
appetite for the ham, and we all know that Aunt Lily and Uncle Jake aren’t
coming this year. They sent polite excuses. But we know. They are afraid
because things used to be different.
We are too busy with our thoughts. And
no one tries to be cheerful. We’re not exactly dreary or downtrodden, but being
cheerful just isn’t important this year. This year is different.
Because this year there is no Ricky.
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