by Gianoula Burns

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Some traditions take time to fade, the stocking at the end of the bed, the laying out of carrot and mince pie for Santa on Christmas Eve, the lights that adorn the live Christmas tree much weathered with each year, mince pies and custard, fruitcake, all those things we have come to associate with Christmas, lovingly built up when children arrive slowly fade when they grow and depart. It takes time to dismantle, but with each year one or other vanishes from the celebration and we wonder whether they ever did exist at all, just memories that are stored and unpacked when reminiscences are the norm. They meant something, sometime to someone and then memory departs and traditions are buried with the people that gave them life.  She now prepares two stockings per bed, one for each couple, but they no longer sleepover, she no longer has to wait till they are fast asleep to creep into their bedrooms trying not to make a noise while placing the heavily laden parcels at their feet. That time has slipped away, gone with those other things we scarcely remember, the children’s high-pitched squeals of delight when the sun rises. Surely, they’ll remember when she’s gone the burden of that love, or so she hopes.