It’s been swallowed by a monster. Surrendered to commercialism. And it’s getting worse every year, Margaret. But you sign up to their mantra. Christmas this, Christmas that. ‘Can we buy a new tree? It’s beginning to look rather sparse Malcolm…like your hairline!’ Do you remember saying that ya cheeky little bissum! ‘Will we try beef instead of turkey for a change this year?’ Your passion for the festive season…question after question. Mind you, I still haven’t gotten over last year. You asked if we should do our bit for the environment by sending Christmas E-cards. In forty-eight years of marriage, that is undoubtedly, the silliest thing you’ve ever asked. Who filled your head with absurd new-fangled ideas like that? Asking a traditionalist, like me, such a question! Nobody does Christmas like you though. All those special little touches. The candles, just for me, cinnamon, cloves and ginger to transport me back to my childhood and mother’s baking. The pine scented one that returned me to shaking my presents for clues, under the tree. Uck, these blasted memories. C’mon pull yourself together, Malcolm. Stop being a silly old man. It’s all becoming too much. I can’t cope. How can I get through this? Tomorrow…my first Christmas day without you. I’m calling today Christmas grieve. Uck, what’s the point though, my lame attempts at humour fall on deaf ears now. I’m bereft without you. Look around you. Bricks and mortar can die too. Without you, this isn’t a home, it’s a departure lounge. I’m waiting impatiently, I want to join you now.
I’m purely, existing, until I’m back by your side. Oh, why do I even bother trying to speak to you?
Do you remember laughing at my feeble efforts at understanding that blasted interweb or whatever it’s called? You know the Christmas cards by the email thingummy to our friends and family that you asked me about? Well, I wish I could send myself to you. Just like that. One click. Instantaneously back in your arms. I miss you so much…it’s killing me. Soon…please god, make it soon.

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