This Christmas season, 1861, the house seemed especially empty even with the cheery voices of the children. They had somehow gotten over their mother's death. Children are somehow more pliable than adults—they bounce back easier. He felt he would never get over it. And now that it was Christmas time again, he thought it may never really be Christmas again without her.
He was in his study, staring at a blank page as the children played noisily outside. Edith, the youngest girl, said to the other children “It's almost Christmas. I wonder if we're going to go on the sleigh rides again this year.”
Charles, the eldest, replied: “I doubt it seriously. Father is still grieving Mother, so we have to be patient and don't bother him about rides or anything until he's ready.”
But would he ever be ready, they wondered.
“Well what about the Christmas tree?” asked Edith.
“We’d better not bother him with that either,” replied Charles, “and I don’t think I’m up to chopping one down and bringing it in, either. It would be quite a task, even with all of you helping. So why don’t we just decorate that big fir tree that’s there outside the window? We can look at it through the window, and it will almost be the same thing.”
“Well,” sighed Edith, “It won’t be exactly the same, but I guess it’ll do.”
Click Follow to receive emails when this author adds content on Bublish