It was her first Christmas alone. His death had been unexpected, and therefore, there had been no time to prepare. They’d had one child, Henry, now an adult. She’d not wanted to admit to him that she was lonely. He had his own family, and to complain seemed unfair. He had his own affairs to attend to. Nonetheless, she’d found the season depressing. She probably should have bought a tree. They’d always had one. Even when Henry left the house, even when her husband got sick, they’d always managed to get a real tree. This year it just seemed so wasteful and unnecessary. She’d imagined removing all of the Christmas ornaments from their boxes, triggering tears and the relentless heaviness of sadness. She would wish that she had died with him. She couldn’t face it again. Now it was Christmas Eve, and she was sorry, as it seemed like just another day of the week.

Her sole indulgence had been to buy a pot of amaryllis at the grocery store. It must have been some small voice inside her that still wanted to live, in spite of the pain and sadness. She’d made it a habit to try to find little signs that life was still something to be grateful for. The purchase of the flowers had been such an effort.

Now it was Christmas Eve, and she resolved to try again.

She put a pot of Christmas tea on the stove. The pot whistled pleasantly. She could be grateful for that. She sat close to the window and looked for something else to be grateful for. She thought she could hear faint sounds, carols? The amaryllis was in full bloom. She didn’t remember it looking that way yesterday.

Learn more about the author:

Amy Dematt

Learn more about the contest which inspired this story:  Nutshell Narratives 2019-01