You stare out the window as the snowflakes fall. They’re white, yet they all seem to have a blue tinge to them. Your heart becomes that much heavier.
It’s Christmas Eve, you realise, and still he’s not home. Still. A sad smile creeps onto your face at the memory. Dancing in the main room while your son was asleep every Christmas Eve at midnight. You two always used to do that, didn’t you? Not last year you didn’t, and you won’t be this year. Not unless you can have a miracle.
A few graceful tears streak down your pale cheeks. The blue snow keeps falling. It feels your pain, it’s trying to give you comfort, but you don’t let it. You won’t let it. Comfort, in your experiance, dulls the memory. Once you find comfort, the memory of who or why you needed it in the first place leaves you, and you can’t have that. Not with this memory, or memories. Its- they’re special.
A few more tears. Your emerald eyes shine, though not their usual elegant glow of happiness. They shine with sadness; with tears. The tears you can’t seem to stop shedding.
Your hand instinctively goes to the pendant hanging around your neck. The stone is the same color as his eyes. The eyes you miss so much. A teardrop falls on the precious stone, but you take no notice. Your eyes stay trained on the snow.
Is he alright? You ask yourself. Will he ever come home again? And just like the other times you have plagued yourself with this question, there is no answer. Not even from the voices that used to, and still do on occasion, swim around your mind.
The blue snow keeps falling. The beautiful light-blue dots are covering the window, making it almost impossible to see. That’s fine though. All you were staring at was the very snow that blocks your view.
There’s the sound of someone sniffling and it takes a moment to realise that it’s not you. You look beside yourself and slightly down, where the noise came from, and are suprised -though not shocked- to find a mass of raven hair that almost comes to your shoulder.
The raven haired boy sniffs again and you wrap him in a one-arm hug, whispering words of what you hope is comfort. A chilling fear fills you. What if, by comforting him, he forgets? You stop abruptly, but still nestled him closer to your chest. He doesn’t seem to mind for once, though he doesn’t quite welcome your embrace he doesn’t push it aside like he would have when he was younger. That’s good.
He looks up at you with tear filled eyes that are so similar to the on you try so hard not to forget, though does not cry. “Are you okay, mother?” He asks, though clearly in pain himself. You nod, your words lost.
Yes. They’re lost amongst the snow. Like he is. But your words will come back, you know that. There’s only one question left to be answered.
Will he return from snow as well, or leave you both with this heart wrenching blue Christmas? Alone?