The carols sound from the kitchen, accompanied by my mother's tuneful humming - she's stuffing the turkey in preparation for Christmas lunch tomorrow. I smile as I sit on the stairs and watch the hustle down the corridor, Fred carrying bags of wood for the fire, Casper following dutifully behind gazing up with admiration at his big brother. Coming towards them is Jessie, laden with a teetering pile of wrapped boxes which she cannot see over. I love this time of year; the frosty window panes which will only melt after the fire has been blazing for hours and until then we are all expected to "layer up" as Dad used to say. This is our fifth year without him, we have become accustomed to not sitting on his knee whilst he tells us tales of Robin Redbreast and how he once saw Dancer and Blitzen when he was as tall as the door handle.
Casper can't really remember his booming laugh and smiling eyes, he was only 2 when the accident happened. At least he's used to mother helping us to lay out the glass of brandy accompanied by the obligatory home-made mince pie and carrot for the reindeer. It doesn't seem quite right though, as we are all called through into the kitchen signifying that the turkey is done and it's time for her spindly, gold banded fingers to reach down the dusty bottle from the top shelf rather than the robust, strong palms which had previously grasped the bottle with ease.
Lottie
xxxx
(Author's note: this is NOT autobiographical)
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