Every December

Photo by Simon Matzinger on Pexels.com

After Gram passed, Gramp’s health faltered, then his memory.  His good memories are solid.  The rest, not so much.

“Snow’s falling, Gramps.”
“I see it.  Nice.  Christmas soon.”
“Yes, Gramps. Soon.”
“Your Daddy coming home?”
“No Gramps.”
“Not again this year huh?”
“No, Gramps.”
“Be good to see him.”
“It would, Gramps.”
“’Specially Christmas.”
“Especially Christmas, Gramps.”
“Maybe next year, huh?”
“Maybe, Gramps.”

Every December, Gramps asks.  When snows start. Every Christmas. Especially snowy Christmases.  He’s comfortable waiting for something that won’t happen. Pop and other young men won’t come home again for Christmas.  Ever.  I just let it go.

© S P Wilcenski

WC:100

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