Christmas is nigh... (1)

The days seem to be flying by at the speed of light. Wasn't it November a couple of days ago? And now it's almost Christmas? Oh dear... Luckily almost all the presents are packed and we're set to go. But before we do so, here's a story I wrote quite a few years back about love, christmas and in general what we wish for. I'm gonna have to split it up as it's rather long but I hope you enjoy it anyhow. I called it: 

I wish… this Christmas

It had been a good two years since she’d last been in England and many of the memories had not been too joyous. This year, however, she wasn’t about to let it get to her. She had spent long enough working through her past and as the sweet words of ‘Silent Night’ sung in her ears she felt a wave of courage and boldness. Tonight she was going to find out whether the love in her heart was worthy of someone as good as him. 

The lights glistened in the white of the snow that perched silently on streets and pavements. Rainbows of colour spread a Christmas feeling throughout the city and despite the stress and rush of buying and finding there were smiles all around. In the trees rows and rows of lights beckoned for song and although Marie had always been a Christmas-lover and fond of anything that yelled for seasonal cheer; tonight she wasn’t going to be singing songs or smiling too soon. At least that was the fear that had nestled into the pit of her stomach since she’d stepped off the plane. 

Her stomach jolted; almost; almost she’d lost her balance for the fourth time. If only she hadn’t worn those boots that despite looking great had made her slip countless times on the ice. Slow down and take it easy; he’s not going anywhere; she told herself; over and over. Marie wasn’t even sure whether he’d be home on Christmas Eve. Surely he would have gone to his parents for the season? Determined she clutched the two carefully wrapped presents that had dug themselves into her cold fingers. She sniffed as the icy wind blurred her already teary eyes. It was somewhere here, she thought, racking her memory for the way to the house. She uncrumpled the piece of paper with the address on it. 3: that was the number of the house. She had written it so many times on so many letters that she knew he must have received but probably thrown away. 

Marie’s heels clicked and clacked on the cobbled stones. She’d always loved the cosiness of the colloquial England she had grown to know. The little town positively buzzed with a warm Christmas cheer and as she tried desperately not to slip on the ice her mind raced through countless memories of him. How much she would like to spend Christmas strolling around this town filled with children’s smiles and stretch up to kiss him in the middle of the street; savouring every minute as the snow flakes tickled her nose and planted themselves on his eyelashes; framing those deep, loving blue eyes with their delicate meaning. 

A car raced by. She stopped. What am I doing? He won’t want to see you. He has a girlfriend; he’s probably not home. You’ve come all this way and you’re probably just going to hurt yourself. Turn around. Walk away while you can. Just go. Yet her feet kept going. 

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