It was Christmas Eve. Mum was toiling away in the kitchen, trying to save some slightly burnt roast potatoes, while dad was parking the car in the garage from our trip buying the Christmas tree earlier.
It now stood in the living room, wobbling as I strangled its soft branches in a shiny garland, needles pitter-pattering on the presents placed carefully underneath. The pile was smaller than it usually was, as granny always used to go overboard with gift-giving. Not any more though.
The old gift bag filled with baubles and other handmade decorations by my feet slowly grew emptier. I picked up the last object from it - it seemed to be something I had made in nursery, I recalled with a small smile. A small paper angel, battered from sitting at the bottom of the bag for so long. Turning it over in my hands, my breath caught in my throat. Scrawled on the back in black marker were the words: 'To granny'.
Before the pools in my eyes could turn into proper tears, I quickly hung it up. Decorating was finished for this year.Yes, the house was ready for Christmas, bursting with decor and the smell of home cooked meals, but nothing could fill the gap granny had left when she died. Her armchair sat quietly by the hearth, painfully empty. Before, granny would have warmed that chair, beckoned me to sit on her lap. The notes from her violin would have danced across the air, filling the room, putting the Christmas carols on the television to shame.
Oh how she loved that violin, how beautifully she spun those notes. She had stopped playing in recent years as the arthritis stiffened her fingers, but she would still hold it close, and I would try and play some short tune she had shown me. After her death the violin had gone missing, misplaced somewhere in the house, every piece of her gone..
And now she was gone, the house was empty. The armchair was empty and her place at the dining table was empty and the air was empty of her music and laughter. No Christmas wish could bring her back or fill the emptiness. She was gone forever. That didn’t stop me from wishing, however, as I laid in my bed that night.
The morning and the snow clouds slowly overtook the tired night. The snowflakes gracefully fell to the earth, their cold kisses smothering the ground. A white Christmas, I thought to myself. I could imagine granny’s delight as vividly as if she was there in the room with me. I sighed, and made my way downstairs.
Breakfast was hastily gulped down before we made our way to the living room. I half expected to see granny sitting in the armchair, laughing, telling me it had all been one big joke. But no. The armchair was still empty, Father Christmas hadn't bought her back. To my surprise, however, a new present sat underneath the tree, something that wasn’t there when I was decorating the tree last night. My name was written on the glossy wrapping paper. Mum and dad looked expectantly as I tentatively tore the paper, and I stopped as the jewel inside was unveiled.
It was my grandmother's violin! Its beautiful spruce wood seemed to glow at my touch, the scroll gleamed proudly. The bow fitted perfectly under my hand, and I could scarcely hear my fathers explanation about how they had found it. I lifted it up, drew the bow across the strings, and my granny came to life again. Her smile, her tune, filled the air, filled the house, and filled my heart once more.
(Emma Dimitrova, 14-years old)
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