A Comma

Remember when Christmas used to be white? Remember when your laughter was stirred in together with the rest of the toddlers, all in the joy and jubilee of opening up your presents? One by one, with gentle reminders from that pesky sibling of yours not to tear the nice wrapping paper?

Remember when Christmas used to be white? Remember when your parents didn’t ask you what presents you wanted before Christmas, but revealing each present never failed to satisfy your cravings? All the presents you got was exactly what you wanted, and you had simple demands, simple dreams, in fact; unexpensive ones?

Remember when Christmas used to be white? When your sister spent the whole holidays up to Christmas with you, singing along with you to Christmas carols, patronising you and your harmless desires of wanting to play past Christmas’ toys and dingbats with her? Remember how she always got time to play with you when you were young?

Remember when Christmas used to be white? Remember when hanging up the Christmas tree and decorating it was a family affair? And everyone had so much fun doing it? Remember how we always had family time together in front of the TV, watching and laughing along to some shows? Remember how they used to laugh at your jokes? Or, in fact, your guile?

I remember.