December the first arrived and my husband started his ranting. I ignored him as long as I could, but once the week before Christmas came, there was no escaping it. We had always put up the decorations the week before Christmas. It was long enough to enjoy them and short enough for the children’s patience waiting for Santy to arrive. It was then the question of “How many more days till Santy comes?” began in earnest.

They are grown now. Santy flew over our home without stopping. I had begun to distance myself from Christmas as it swallowed Halloween and flooded social media with Christmas countdowns from January. It knew no boundaries especially when the bottom fell out of my world and Christmas went dark.

“We’re putting up a tree this year,” he called.

“No, we’re not,” I inwardly screamed. Time meant nothing, it was just a measurement, part of infinity, it has no end. “Tick, tock”, seven years, “Tick, tock,” a life cycle that would forever spin, “Tick, tock.” How I long to be the cold earth that surrounds his body. I shiver.

Seven years? What about the three before that? He was locked in, surrounded by walls and clinical smells, despite mimicking a home. Trapped by his own mind, tortured by a man he no longer knew. Occasionally a window opened letting me see the father I once knew, or the child he once was. Then it would close. Cruel years.

Christmas, who needs it, rushing, fighting, fussing, overspending. The true meaning, long gone, consumed by commercialism. Unwanted presents, unwanted guests, uninvited guests. Families battling over where to go, who to visit, who to host. Decisions, Decisions. For ten years since he passed, we’d had no tree, what’s another year? The children hadn’t missed it. I certainly hadn’t. Our grandchild was too young to notice.

“It’s time,” my husband said, holding me close, “It’s time.” I nodded and pulled away under the pretence of using the bathroom. Sitting on our bed, tears flowing, sobs choking me. I missed my dad so much. Why has life been so cruel? I felt cold.

I reached into my wardrobe searching for a jumper. My hand rests on a navy sleeve. I pulled it from its hanger and held it to my nose. It was well washed and worn. Somehow, I could still smell him. I drank it in, filling my very soul. I wrapped it around me, encasing myself in him. The first one I had bought him after he left home, I’d lovingly sewn his name label on the neckline and written his full name with a laundry marker, just like I had my children’s school uniforms. I touched its buttons, the soft v- neck. I heard him whispering “It’s time, alannah. Do it for the childer.”

I put my arms, one at a time, into the faded, well washed cardigan. Instantly I was a child again. I was cuddled in his strong arms as he carried me to bed. He tucked me in, kissed me and blessed my forehead. He whispered softly that Santy wouldn’t come unless I was asleep.

Warmth spread through me. I knew there and then he was with me. He’d be the wind beneath my sails. I closed my eyes and I saw him holding my granddaughter in his arms, they were smiling at one another. I knew he wanted her to enjoy Christmas too.

Wrapped in his cardigan I made my way to the kitchen where my husband waited. I spoke confidently. “Let’s do it! Will we buy a new tree?”