Cricket

I love Christmas. I start planning Christmas in the summer. It’s a holiday full of joy, wonder and companionship to me. For all of the souls I share it with and all of the fond memories I have of it, there are traces that will ever remind me of you.

Holding you on the couch as we watched the snow fall. Opening presents with your family. Waking up to breakfast, your framed eggs. Me trying and failing to make breakfast for you, and you trying my cheese covered egg globs anyway.

My shoulder wet with tears at the thoughts of your departed father.

I still remember my brother’s wedding. I smiled as they announced the father/daughter dance. I admired the sweetness of fathers taking their little girls of all ages onto the dance floor. I watched as my new sister in law danced with her father.

Then I remembered. I turned to see your eyes brim with tears. Wordless, I took your hand and we walked to the parking lot. You emptied your tears upon me as I held your shaking body. You apologized for taking me away from the reception. Your thoughtfulness was boundless, even at your worst.

I told you there was nowhere else I would rather be, and that was the truth. It still is.

Had I only known how dear this all was. But I did not yet understand the face of the demon called Depression and of all it cost me, you were the steepest price. Countless times I would have traded the life I gained on the other side to have you back again.

My friends back there tell me how they wish they could have my life. And backstage, on tour, on set; I dream of a simple life in a small town with you.

You’re having a child now. A child you told me you never wanted. With a new husband I wish was me. How things change…

In the still of night it’s the little things. Your presence next to me, your tender sleeping visage, and the way you would rub your feet together to fall asleep. Like a beautiful cricket.

And the night song returns the lump in my throat. I swallow hard all the regret that’s brought me here without you. Their serenade echoing in the starlight, a requiem for another life I might have lived.