The Christmas House

The Christmas House

By Paige Laframboise

December 11, 2006

In my fantasy, I am even older than before. Not that old though, mid-twenties perhaps, because in fantasies you’re never very old at all. Nobody wants to imagine being crumby and grey. So I’m still young, still naturally blonde, and preferably looking like I just stepped out of a CoverGirl advertisement.

My husband is the kind of man who has a five-o-clock shadow and tries to pretend that he actually did quit smoking, even though he knows I know he hasn’t. He’s not typically English with red hair and freckles, he has soft brown hair that’s maybe not as long as when we were kids, but still long enough that I can run my fingers through it. He has startling eyes, the first thing you notice about him, and the reason I knew he was the one that first time we met, smoking cigarettes for nerves in the midst of the tourists (okay, I was one of them) in the very centre of Piccadilly Circus.

We still live in England, but not I’m my pretty little blue door house in London. We now own a gorgeous home in the countryside, purchased with the inheritance we received from a distant relative. The commute’s a bitch, but it’s worth it to look out the window everyday and see the rolling hills covered in greener grass. We live on the other side.

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Late Christmas Eve we sit on cushions on the floor, slowly sipping apple cider from Canada, and watching the fire burn to embers. We are happy in our seclusion, absolutely content with on the company of each other. The tree glows multicolour, the only source of light art from the fireplace. Underneath is what could be the entire contents of a department store, all covered in wrapping paper and ribbons. Someone’s been good this year.

I carefully move from where I am nestled in his arms and go to the kitchen to wash our mugs. I smile, thinking of him quietly dozing in the next room. I don’t think I could wake him, he looks too peaceful.

I turn back to the living room and see him watching me. Leaning slightly to one side, a half smile on his lips. As I draw nearer I can see his half asleep eyes, ever sparkling. He points up, and I look. There’s nothing there.

“Mistletoe” he whispers, his breath still smells of cider.

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The next morning we are awakened by thumping on the stairs and squeals as vibrant as strawberry daiquiris. Tiny, with light blonde hair and eyes like his fathers, he runs to the tree, giggling in delight. Barely three years old, his presents are bigger than he is. I feel an arm pull me closer as we lay in the still-tangled cushions and watch our son.