Our First Christmas

The first year of our marriage has been tough hasn’t it?

What with me being made redundant in this god-forsaken recession and the loss of our little Ethan. I know you’ve tried to hide your pain but I hear you cry at night, and I can’t help. At least that’s the way it seems.

I remember the joy we both felt, the tears of joy running down you face after that difficult birth, as you held onto our baby boy.

I remember the other tears after his death. It was a cot death, there was nothing you could’ve done. These words have lost their meaning I’ve been saying them so often.

I know money’s tight right now but I couldn’t help myself. When I saw the beautiful sprig of mistletoe on offer I had to buy it.

When you arrive home from your counselling session it’s hung up on the ceiling and I pull you to me, kissing you gently.

The moment is broken by it falling down on top of our heads, and we both reel with laughter, not knowing where it’s from.

We kiss once more and the year’s pain is washed away in the laughs.

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