Silent Night

The sound of choral singing drifted up from the streets below, reaching him where he sat staring at the roaring fire before him. It was one of those classic carols, the very notes of which evoke warm memories of Christmases long since passed. Whether you want those memories or not. He smiled to himself and the smile went unnoticed; as did most of his smiles these days.

“...God rest ye merry gentlemen, let nothing you dismay...”

The singing stopped, replaced by laughter and congratulatory murmurs, as the carol singers finished. He stood and drifted over to the window, gazing down at them, bundled up in their coloured hats and scarves. They were moving from one house to the next, selecting a carol from their repertoire of about five. Having just finished singing to his neighbours, the group moved swiftly on, passing his house and hurrying into the drive of the house on the other side. They did not look up at him.

He didn’t mind too much. There really was no reason why they should. This house attracted nobody anymore.

The carol singers soon began the next old favourite on the other side of him. Again, he felt those nostalgic stirrings, unwanted and unbidden. It was like this every Christmas. There was no reason to suppose it would ever be any different on those Christmases to come. The pattern had long been set.

“…Glories stream from heaven afar. Heavenly hosts sing Alleluia! Christ, the Saviour is born…”

He returned slowly to his chair, gazing down at the rug on the floor before letting his eyes return to the fire. The deep snow outside acted as an excellent buffer for the sound, bouncing it up clearly to his room. He was hoping that they’d skip Silent Night this year. She’d always loved this one; loved for him to sing it to her softly, in her ear on Christmas Eve as they lay on the rug drinking Port. The old Christmas ritual. The old life. Before she left.

He was confused again, uncertain of what had happened; of how he had come from there to here. He couldn’t remember why she had gone, just that for some reason she no longer seemed to enjoy him singing softly in her ear anymore. He had vague fragments of memory and tried desperately to put them together into something coherent and revealing.

He remembered her lying on the bed, still and curled into a foetal position. He had tried singing to her then but she had only wept. He remembered a gathering of people, and she was there. They were standing around, dressed in sombre shades and chatting in respectful quiet. Hadn’t he known them all? He couldn’t remember. He had stood behind her that day and sung into her ear. She had just stood still, gazing out of the window, her face blank and her eyes circled. Once she had turned her head slightly, taking a sharp breath and whispering his name, and he thought perhaps she was about to come back to him. But then her face had darkened again and she had gone back to staring.

Then she went away, and he was here, alone. If only he could remember! If only he could remember what he’d done wrong! But it was no good. There were no answers, just the waiting. Just the cold comfort of repetition and the waiting. Just this bewildering new Christmas routine and the loneliness and the waiting.

From the distance, a few houses down, the singing continued.

"...Bless all the dear children, In Thy tender care. And take us to heaven, To live with Thee there..."

He smiled to himself and the smile went unnoticed; as did most of his smiles these days.