A Christmas Miracle

There had been real care in the decorations put up around the large dining area. There was a sense of gentle nostalgia in the colours used: muted forest green, burnt red and antique gold. The Christmas tree in the corner was a real one - the toys on its branches handmade, harking back to a different time. The tables - mostly only round, two seaters - had been draped in white linen, the cutlery silver - in colour if not make up - and the wine and water glasses sparkled clean. And the food - well the smell rivalled any home cooked meal.

Not all the tables were full yet - but there had been a steady stream of guests finding time to have lunch with someone much loved. Usually meals shared in the dining room were muted, conversations either one-sided or non-existent. But today was Christmas Day, and it had brought with it softness to ease what was a harsh, and sometimes cruel, reality. In the background, a gentle soundtrack of timeless carols quietly weaved magic.

The three of them sat at the table by the window, Christmas lunch started. It was sunny outside - a change from the gloomy, mild drizzle of the winter so far - and a beam of light crossed the table between them. It caught her cutlery, casting bright shapes across the wall. When she cut into the turkey, the shapes changed, darted about, momentarily rainbow coloured. She watched them flicker out as she raised her fork to her lips.

Her brother caught her eye and offered a muted smile. A month ago, maybe, he would have struggled to find words, to bring sound to their gatherings, because in sound there was certainty. She smiled back. They had found an appeasement of sorts - surrendered to the silence-filled spaces where words had lost their hold.

It had been slow and fraught, a battle they had already lost before they realised it had even begun. A subtle, insidious thief, it was, that had crept into their lives, quietly stealing away the parts that made up their father. It took words first - small, silly words, pushing forward others to fill the growing voids. And then it stole meaning … and time … and people. They fought valiantly, the three of them, desperately trying to build makeshift bridges so that he could always find his way back.

When the bridges grew too fragile, they threw out ropes made of stories and memories he had shared with them as children - reaching out over vast stretches of time. Even as the rope frayed, there were persistent threads - stubborn, favourite stories: during his National Service - when he was the first to hear of an invasion of a foreign land and having to relay it with a sense of dread and horror; the first time he stepped off the plane in a hot land - meeting his soon to be mother in law who could not hide her feelings that he was just not good enough for her daughter. That one always had always made him laugh because they had become great friends in the end. His too thin face, his pale drooping cheeks lifting into a broad, gappy smile.

Even once it was clear he no longer recognised who they were - just that he loved them, they fought for to keep that too.

And then the rope had finally snapped - when his eyes passed over them in the same way the passed over strangers. It had been difficult, painful. But they had navigated the change, finding simple things to talk about with each other when the visited together, and to him when they visited alone. Her brother would talk about rugby and watch tv with him; she would read aloud to him from ‘Under Milk Wood’, and he would sit quietly, staring out of the window.

He had eaten quite a lot of the cut up turkey, was still slowly getting through it, while he blinked, wide-eyed at his surroundings. She and her brother had found something to talk about - a film that was on television that evening. It was part of a national Christmas tradition and they had joked about which one of them fell asleep the soonest once it had started.

They did not notice the carol playing in the background had changed. Neither of them hearing the clear, perfect pitch of a young choir boy singing of a frozen moonlit sky, of icy mountains, of villages passing like dreams.

But their father had stopped chewing, head tilted slightly. They had both glanced at him, drawn by the movement - and then looked back, surprised. When the song ended, their father met her gaze.

‘My favourite, Pippin,’ he said.

It was a firework, punching back at the darkness for the briefest, most profound of perfect moments. The childhood endearment a beacon, reminding them - shining brightly on what had been slipping away.

And then - as he started chewing again - it was gone.

They left the home together, their father settled in front of a tv he no longer watched. She put her arm through her brother’s, pulling him close. At their separate cars they hugged tightly, neither able to speak. When they finally parted, she stood on tiptoes to kiss his cheek.

“Happy Christmas,” she said softly.

“Happy Christmas to you too, Pippin.”