It was Christmas. It was dark and early. The room was cold.

The duvet that

enveloped me was freezing, and damp. For a while I watched the water droplets that
had formed from the condensation on my window. I pretended that they were racing
each other and made bets on which would win. The outside of the window pane was
covered with sleet. I had always disliked sleet. How could two such beautiful things
as snow and rain form to make something so ugly? It puzzled me.
I had difficulty choosing between which I preferred; rain or snow. Both were
equally beautiful, equally appealing. Rain was familiar and comforting. It reminded
me of staying inside beside the lighting fire, comfortable, cosy and safe. But snow
was exciting, thrilling even. Perhaps its appeal was because of its infrequency, its
unpredictability. I had no desire to stay inside when it was snowing. I wanted to make
every second I spent in it last, eternally. Stretch it, wring it out, until it had nothing
left to give me. And then I could go back to staying inside and watching the rain and
basking in its intimate, domestic repose.
I tried to decide whether or not to move from the comfort of my icy bed.
Eventually the temptation proved too much. My room was so small it only took my 3’
self a couple of steps to cross the room. I jumped up to reach the door handle and it
clacked the door open. I knew I would be berated for waking up my grandparents, but
I went into my Mums room regardless. Her room was directly opposite mine, and the
painted white door was ajar so that she could hear me if I awoke during the night. I
was prone to nightmares and she was prone to being overprotective. I tiptoed into her
room. She was snoring softly. She lay on her back and I watched her for a little while
as she drank the air of the room. Hers was even smaller than mine. I was worried that
there wouldn’t be enough left if I breathed it too, so I tried my best not to. Her chest
moved up and down evenly and steadily with each intake of breath. I tried to find the
source of her snoring. It sounded guttural. Like the noise my granddad made when he
was eating in front of the TV. I decided it must have been from her throat, so I
touched it and felt it vibrate beneath my cold, tiny hands. She felt warm, and I was
freezing, so I climbed into the bed beside her. Her blankets were cold as my duvets
had been. And the mattress was cold on the parts she had not slept on. It was a double
bed but there was nobody beside her. I crawled into this void and curled up close to
her. I remember smelling her, but I don’t recall what it was she smelt like. Perhaps it
was simply warmth.
She was still asleep but she knew I was there. She opened her arms the exact
right amount for me to fit in comfortably but not feel suffocated. Thinking back on it I
guess that was the epitome of her parental techniques. Her eyes were closed but her
eyelids were wet. She had been crying. It was unlike my strong and independent
mother to cry, but today was an exception. Today would be her first Christmas
without him after fourteen with him. And when I would leave later, to spend what was
left to spend what was left of the day with him, she would be alone. At 33, spending
your Christmas with your family of origin while your family of procreation celebrated
it without you was an unbearable thought. So she could be forgiven for crying today.
I knew that it was Christmas. I knew that that meant Santa and presents. And I
knew that the living room doors wouldn’t be locked. But the temptation of satisfying
my curiosity and seeing whether or not Santa had been was not stronger than staying
exactly where I was. I didn’t want to leave her. I needed to look after her.
After a while though, I began to grow impatient. I peeled back her eyelids to
wake her up. The skin felt so elastic and thin that I was worried it would snap and
break, that I’d hurt her. Her eyebrows furrowed into an angry, guilty frown. She
looked at her watch that lay on her locker, and without telling me the time she got up
and put on her slippers. She turned back to look at me.
“Well come on, don’t you want to see if Santa came?” she yawned, smiling at me. I
knew what she wanted then. She wanted to share in my excitement, to see the smile
on my face as I ripped open the wrapping paper that bound my gifts together. She
wanted to think that I was happy so that she knew she had the potential to be happy
too. So I gave that to her. I didn’t question why Santa had brought me a nurses
uniform instead of the toy kitchenette I’d requested. Instead I demanded that she dress
me in it immediately and told her that when I grew up I wanted to be a nurse just like
her. I smiled, I laughed and I played, just to see her beam back at me with pride and
elation and the knowledge that she had the strength to do this, that she could move on,
and one day be just as happy as I appeared to be.
I don’t remember my Dad picking me up or Mum dropping me off. All I
remember was playing with him in the snow that day, until my cheeks burned with the
cold, and the snow melted through my gloves and my hands were sopping wet. But I
refused to go back inside. I wanted to savour the experience. The snow, and him, to
exhaust them, until they both had nothing left to give me. He brought me back home.
I always made him get out of the car and walk me up to the front door so that
he would have to see Mum. I couldn’t help but think that if only they spent more time
together, that they would fall back in love; the only Christmas present I’d ever really
wanted. Mum told me I couldn’t write that down on my letter to Santa. When I asked
her why she told me that even magic wasn’t stronger than love.
I watched him drive away then, in the rain. I accepted that if something as
magical as Christmas couldn’t bring them together, then nothing could.
A few hours later the rain turned back into sleet. After watching the rain fall on
the snow covered grass and wash it away all day with my mother, a thought occurred
to me. Rain and snow never appeared together. They couldn’t co-exist. They were in a
constant battle with one another. The only reason they ever crossed paths was to make
sleet. Sleet would always be their one and only connection.
One day soon Rain would find her Sun. There would be sun-showers, and they
would make rainbows. And Snow would find his Ice. Winter would come for him, and
he could decorate the world with his beloved. They could both be happy, just not
together.
I looked at the sleet again and suddenly it wasn’t so ugly. It was a testament to
what had been. And when it was conceived from two such beautiful components,
who’s to say it didn’t have the capability to be beautiful too one day?
That’s the point where my memory fades, in a sleety haze of hope.