This is a drabble for lowi's Title Challenge. Hope you like it! Let me know by reviewing! :D
I've had a love-hate relationship with Christmas for as long as I can remember. I enjoy the decorations that go up around the castle every year, and the presents I receive under the tree every Christmas morning. Plus, the music always playing is really wonderful. It's cheery and uplifting, just the kind of thing I need at this time of year.
Christmas, for most people is a time of happiness. It's a time to get together with friends and family and celebrate each other. The problem with me is I don't have any friends. Not any close ones, anyway. And the only family member that I can celebrate with is my Grandmother. And we don't even celebrate together. Christmas is a painful time for the both of us.
When I was younger, I didn't understand why Grandma hated Christmas so much. Didn't she like getting presents from Santa? I knew she enjoyed singing, so why would she never open her mouth to sing Christmas carols? Now that I'm older, I understand. She misses them. I miss them, even though I barely knew them.
The saying "You can't miss what you never had" confuses me. I suppose it's true. I don't remember my parents before. I was too young. I didn't grow up with them caring for me like most kids do, so I can't miss the times we spent together. I don't remember those times. But that doesn't explain the hollow feeling in my heart whenever I think of them. I think I miss the times we could have had.
Christmas is a reminder of those special times that a certain group of people decided I wasn't going to have. My parents gave up everything to protect me and countless others. And no one seems to care. I think that's the thing that bothers me the most – I visit my parents at St. Mungo's each holiday and countless times over the summer. And I've never seen anyone else there but me and my grandmother.
My parents are certifiably insane, not that you'd need to see a certificate to come to that conclusion. If you spent more than ten minutes with them, you'd know. They tend to mumble to themselves about random things. And they can't remember anything that is said to them. They see things that aren't there, and people they used to know, they can't recognize.
One Christmas, I came in wearing a dark green sweater my grandmum had knitted me, and my father thought I was a walking cactus. He wouldn't go anywhere near me, for fear of getting pricked. My mother didn't even take notice of his strange behavior. She was too busy coloring a picture of a bird and singing a song about fish.
Sometimes, I feel like they know who I am. That underneath their eyes, just for a moment, recognition begins to stir. I know it's only wishful thinking on my part, but I can't help but wish. It's what I want more than anything in the entire world. If my parents could look at me just for a moment, their eyes finally clear, love shining from within, I would be happy. I would never want anything else for as long as I live.
But deep down, I know they are irreparable. Nothing will ever bring them back. They won't ever know who I am. I'll never be able to make them truly proud of me. That should be a comfort to someone like me – clumsy, silly, oafish. If I can't make them proud, at least I also can't disappoint them. But it isn't.
Frank and Alice Longbottom are broken – beyond anything even the most powerful healer can do to help. The people they once were are now long gone. Try as I might, I will never be able to talk to them as my parents. They will never know me as their son.
They are unreachable.
An indisputable fact that Christmas always seems to remind me of.