The idea of this one was entirely Pen's – I just wrote it down.
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Symphony for Growing Hearts
by kaeera
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FIRST MOVEMENT: GRIEF
+Christmas+
The air felt fresh, cold and crisp, scented with the tiniest bit of cinnamon. Many of the houses were decorated with Christmas lights, changing the darkness of the evenings into something friendlier and warmer.
The house itself smelled of cookies and gingerbread - Grandma had been baking. With Christmas barely two weeks away, there was an underlying current of glee noticeable among the five boys. The younger ones were especially affected. Alan kept changing his wish-list almost every hour, while Gordon had sudden doubts about his behaviour. He kept looking over his shoulder, expecting to be scolded by Santa Clause any second.
Virgil had started practising songs on the piano that he would perform under the tree on Christmas Eve. Scott was being all mysterious, evading questions about presents with ease and thus annoying the heck out of his brothers (he seemed to enjoy it).
Jeff smiled, cradling his coffee cup. Today had been a day mixed with both joy and sadness. The fact that this was the first Christmas without their mother was hanging over everybody's heads; but on the other hand, it was impossible to banish the Christmas spirit completely. And so the boys had written their letters to Santa, even Scott 'lowering' himself to the menial task, sitting with his brothers in the kitchen while they ate fresh cookies.
"It's going to snow," a soft voice announced behind him.
"We might get a white Christmas," Jeff agreed.
Grandma Tracy entered the room, a mug in one hand and a pile of letters in the other. "The boys are going to love it." She sat down at the table, a thoughtful look on her face. Systematically she spread the five sheets of papers out in front of her.
Even from the armchair he was sitting in, Jeff could tell which belonged to each of his sons. The one with the torn edge and the red crayon all over simply screamed Alan (he couldn't write yet, so he drew, and red was his favourite colour), whereas the one on the left bore Virgil's round, childish handwriting. Then another with a single line on it (most assuredly Scott's), and a fourth that was full of comic-style doodles - it simply had to belong to Gordon (was that a submarine in the right-hand corner?).
His mother's attention wasn't focused on those four, though. Instead, her gaze was directed at the fifth piece of paper.
Jeff raised his eyebrows. Had John written in pencil? From his vantage point, the paper seemed empty.
"It's empty," his mother voiced his thoughts and looked up.
He frowned and placed the cup on the table. "Maybe you got the wrong one?"
"No, he wrote his name on it."
What the...why would John not write anything on his Christmas list? Didn't he know what to wish for? He had never been unable to articulate his thoughts before; quite the opposite, his letters had always been the most pleasing to read, even before he had been able to write. He'd always dictated to his mother, telling her that she couldn't change anything at all about it, with the result that the end result was full of 'ehs', 'wait, forget that' and 'uhm, maybe that's not such a good idea'.
Jeff's heart gave a sharp pang, as he remembered the fact that there wouldn't be any such little escapades this Christmas; and worse, there never would be again.
It almost made him hate the season.
Then he pulled himself together – no time for grief, he had to deal with the present – and stood up. "Maybe he forgot it?" he guessed, even though he knew John, and how organized he was, even at that age.
"He wouldn't, Jeff, and you know that," his mother frowned. "It worries me. You should go and talk to him."
"I probably should." Jeff walked over to the table and picked up the empty sheet of paper. It seemed to stare accusingly at him, a white blankness with John's name squeezed tightly into the corner. Odd.
Sometimes he had the feeling that he would never understand kids, even when they were his own. With that thought in his mind, he climbed the stairs and knocked on the door that led to John's room.
"Yes?"
"Hello son," Jeff entered the room, also teasingly known as 'outer space' among the rest of his boys, because the walls were plastered with photos of suns, planets, supernovas and other interstellar phenomena.
John himself was lying on the floor, a book spread out in front of him. "Hi Dad."
"Grandma and I were looking at your Christmas list," Jeff came straight to the point, as he always did, "And we were wondering why yours is empty. Did you hand in the wrong sheet of paper?"
"Ah..." A strange mixture of emotions crossed John's face. "Not really."
Jeff frowned. He knew that look. It meant that something bothered the blonde, but he didn't want to tell. That didn't sit well with him. "So why not? Don't you have any Christmas wishes? What about that telescope?"
John squirmed. "Well, yes, I do, but..."
"But what?" Jeff urged when the boy didn't finish.
"It's just...I don't want anything, okay?" John looked at the ground, sullen. "I don't want the telescope, or books, or sweets, or...nothing at all! That's why I didn't write anything on it."
A child that gave up Christmas wishes? That was unheard of! There had to be a deeper meaning to this. Jeff lowered himself to the ground and placed the paper in front of John. "I think you should write your wishes on it," he said. "It is Christmas, after all, and you deserve it."
"No, I don't!" John almost shouted and then looked away, eyes narrowed.
Ah. This certainly wasn't an answer he had expected. Jeff blinked and tried to look into his son's eyes, but John was determinedly avoiding his gaze. "John," he began in that deep voice that meant that there was no other way than telling the truth, "Why?"
The blonde gnawed on his lower lip and shook his head.
"Tell me. Please."
A deep sigh escaped John's lip, so heavy that it seemed to darken the air. He mumbled something, a tell-tale glint in the corner of his eyes.
Jeff frowned. Again. "Excuse me, I didn't quite get that." But he had been sure that the word 'Mom' had been among the jumbled sentence; which explained the sadness. Even though more than ten months had passed, the wound was still as fresh as ever.
"I want Mom to be back."
Jeff still failed to see the connection. "And that's why you didn't write anything on your list?"
John looked away. "Well...I thought...you know...that if I didn't get anything for Christmas, that maybe she could come back. Somehow." He looked down at his hands, while Jeff waited patiently for him to elaborate,
"Like...you know how people bargain with God? They tell him that they're going to be good and all...and as an exchange, they'll get into heaven. Bargains work like that, don't they? You give something, and then you receive another thing in return. And the more...important the thing you give up, the better your result...I don't know...that's what..."
His voice trailed off in a whisper, as he tried to voice his thoughts. "So I thought...I'd tell Santa, and maybe God, too, if he was listening...I'd tell him that I never want anything for Christmas ever again, even if I grow as old as Grandma, and even if they give me the chance to travel to the stars, I would give that up...So that in return...that...that she would come back and make everything alright again. Because life is just not the same."
It was such a silly, childish notion, and it was also a notion that managed to break his heart all over again. "Oh John," he breathed and pulled his son into a half hug. "I'm so sorry, but...but your Mom isn't going to come back. She's gone, and your suffering won't change that."
"No?" The blonde sniffed, at the same time trying to hide the fact. He didn't manage very well. "But I thought..."
"If it would have worked," Jeff told him sadly, "I would have done that the very day she died. Because I miss your mother very much, as well. But that is not the way the world works. What is gone, is gone. We cannot get her back. We only can accept it – and learn to live with it."
"But it's hard!"
For a brief moment, Jeff wondered whether these sort of conversations would ever get any easier. Probably not. It was like the day of her death all over again, with the only exception that back then, he hadn't been able to face his boys at all. Instead, he had left the gruesome task to someone else – had told Scott about it and then locked himself away, to fall into a deep, black pit of his own grief.
There was nothing he could say. Words lost their meaning when confronted with such feelings. Because things didn't get better; they never did. You could only accept, and hope that you learned to live with it.
"I'm sorry," he repeated helplessly, because he was, and if he had been able to change things, he'd do so in a heartbeat, but there was nothing he could do, nothing at all...
"She won't come back." John had a lost look on his face. "I guess...well...I knew...I didn't expect...but I hoped!"
"I know, son."
"I miss her so much, Dad!"
And suddenly, he had an armful of sobbing child, clinging to him as if he never wanted to let go. Jeff cradled the boy closer, offering physical support where words had ceased to mean anything. Outside, snow started to fall, soft and silent, covering the neighbourhood with a thin, white blanket. Neither of them realized, or cared. They sat like that for a long time, the empty sheet of paper forgotten in the corner.
Even Christmas, with all its magic and power, was helpless when it came to certain things.
And the snow continued to fall.
Fin.
I hope that your Christmas is better than John's. Happy Holidays!