Disclaimer: I own nothing.
The second hand ticks its way around the clock. I watch from the shadows as you pace, your feet moving slowly, and only occasionally is the timing right and your foot lands at the same time as the clock ticks off a new second. It is eleven fifty-five. What are you still doing up so late?
I see your face briefly as you turn to pace past me again. The light is dim, but my heart skips and I gasp softly. Your face is wet, streaked with tears that nobody has seen you cry in a long, long time. You sniffle softly, stealing a glance at the clock before resuming your pacing. In that moment I know you have not noticed my presence. I wonder if I should leave you alone to your thoughts. You would not want me to see this. I almost turn to go, but the ticking of the second hand catches my attention, and suddenly I am filled with overwhelming certainty that you are waiting for the clock to strike midnight. Why?
I sink farther back into the shadows, watching you keep this unusual vigil and vowing to keep it with you.
You are counting the seconds now, listening intently to every tick of the clock. I can tell, because now it is eleven fifty-nine, and with each passing second your pacing slows even further until you are not moving at all. I watch as you sniffle again, reaching up to wipe the tears from your eyes. I glance once more at the clock.
Five seconds. Four. Three. Two.
One.
From downstairs we both hear the grandfather clock chime midnight. You wait for the sound to stop before taking a shaky breath.
"Merry Christmas, Mom," you whisper. "I love you."
I leave without a word, and I am certain that you do not notice my exit. It isn't until I'm safe in my bedroom that I notice the tears streaking down my face.