Owain Pritchett struck a match, and the crumpled newspaper beneath the coal caught, flames curling over the black diamonds. A dented tin pan of chestnuts waited beside him; he hadn’t roasted any in years. This year, he was determined to do everything right.
Rime etched the window as Owain hobbled out for more coal. The snow crackled beneath his slippers, and Jack Frost nipped his nose, as it did when he was a child. Back then, he would linger outside in the chill air until his mother’s warm voice called him indoors.
Inside, the house was quiet except for the burble of the radio in the kitchen. A community choir sang a carol he recognised before he could give it a name, just as if his mother’s humming tucked itself amongst the harmonies.
Owain imagined them wrapped in hooded pit jackets, like Dai-Bando Eskimos; lanterns raised, preparing their coal-dust voices. They were the survivors, but all of them were marked in some way.
As the turkey settled in the oven, it hissed gently, filling the air with the rich scent of rosemary and fat. The aroma drifted through the house, trailing a hush in its wake. A sprig of mistletoe hung above the entrance; though he had no expectations, the doorway looked bare without it.
His daughter, Siana, padded in wearing reindeer slippers; her hair wild from her evening bath. Eyes wide in an effort not to fall asleep, she climbed onto the couch and curled up against him, watching the fire. He noticed her legs dangled longer than they had last winter; childhood seemed to pass so quickly.
“Do you think he’s close?”
“Could be,” Owain said, remembering his childhood wonder. “You never know. Mamgu used to say he is everywhere all at once.”
She nodded, certain in the way only children can be when logic and magic agree. “I’m staying awake to see if the reindeer really fly.”
Every child possessed this spark of curiosity, the urge to prove magic by catching it in the act. He recalled staying awake in this very room, straining to hear hooves on the roof and assuring himself that if he listened hard enough, he would catch them.
Siana’s eyes began to droop. He lifted her, light as a wrapped present, and carried her to her room. Tucking her in, he brushed her forehead and whispered the same goodnight his mother used to whisper. “Dream sweet dreams.”
Back in the living room, Owain tipped chestnuts into the pan and held them over the flames. Their shells whispered and cracked as they cooked. He thought about how often people repeated the same simple words, whether in noisy gatherings or silent moments, through both celebration and loss. But the words still worked.
He set the pan down, settled into his chair, and let the fire draw the chill from the room. Then softly whispered into the emptiness, hoping the walls would carry it to whomsoever needed it most.
“Merry Christmas to you.”
The Christmas Song
Chestnuts roasting on an open fire
Jack Frost nipping at your nose
Yuletide carols being sung by a choir
And folks dressed up like Eskimos
Everybody knows a turkey and some mistletoe
Help to make the season bright
Tiny tots with their eyes all aglow
Will find it hard to sleep tonight
They know that Santa’s on his way
He’s loaded lots of toys and goodies on his sleigh
And every mother’s child is gonna spy
To see if reindeer really know how to fly
And so I’m offering this simple phrase
To kids from one to 92
Although it’s been said many times
Many ways, Merry Christmas, Merry Christmas, Merry Christmas to you.
