Hauntings at Christmas

“I don’t understand you young people these days?” Sara’s mother said, tapping her fingers on the dining room table as she always does when frustrated with her daughter.  “What’s wrong with him?” 

“Nothing is wrong with him,” Sara said.  She looked awkwardly around at all the other family members gathered at her parent’s house for Christmas dinner.  They loitered around the spacious living room trying to be polite, giving them space, continuing with their own conversations, but Sara could see them cast their nosy glances her way.  “I just don’t know if I want to marry him.” 

“Sara, it’s time for you to grow up,” her mother said.  “He’s good looking, dresses nice, he drives a fancy car, makes good money.  You’re not going to do better.” 

“Oh, thanks a lot mom.” 

“You know what I mean, Sara.  You can't remain forever that little girl staring out windows for hours on end looking for magic pixies in the snowflakes." 

"Snow butterflies, mom.  I was looking at snow butterflies. 

"Whatever." Her mother got up.  “A time comes for everyone to cast aside childish ways.  This is your time.  Say yes to him; get on with your life.  Be a grown up.  I have to go check on the turkey.” 

Sara sat there alone fuming, but she knew she did not have long to do so.  Soon her cousins will sidle her way and start asking the same questions they all have been asking since she let slip about the marriage proposal. 

Sharks smelling blood in the water, she thought to herself.  Sara bolted up from her chair, avoiding eye contact with everyone.  She scrunched up her best scowl on her face, a warning for everybody to leave her alone, and stomped toward the only person she could stand at that moment. 

Sara found him sitting in his usual spot, the corner seat of the sofa in the living room.  “Hey grandpa,” she said, plopping down beside him.  “What are you doing sitting here all by yourself?”  It was a redundant question. 

The corner of his mouth curled into a soft smile, his cheeks were pink from the heat of the fireplace, and his hair was white, thin and a little messy.  He chuckled pleasantly.  “Don’t mind your mother,” he said. 

“You heard us?” 

“Hard not to sweetheart,” he raised a finger to his left ear, “even for these old things. Your mother doesn’t know what she says.  It is difficult for her to relate to you.  I love her dearly, but that daughter of mine hasn’t been young since she turned ten years old.” 

Sara laughed, surprising herself.  Her grandpa’s observation was right on the spot.  Her mother had always been strict, almost business-like, for as long as she could remember.  Hearing her grandpa say that about her mother...well, it felt somewhat cathartic. It made her feel less alone.   “Are you sure, she wasn’t born an old maid right out of the womb?” she jested. 

They sat in silence.  That is what she loved about her grandpa; he does not push, he does not pry.  He lets her get there in her own time. 

“There’s...there’s just...just not very much to him,” Sara said, staring into the lights of the Christmas tree.  “I mean, he checks off all the boxes for a good husband but...but there’s little substance to him.  You know what I mean?  I just feel there should be something more...more than just...just a preoccupation with money and good looks.  Am I being childish? Is mom right?  Should I let go of such feelings, let them fade away like ghosts?" 

Her grandpa did not respond right away.  He sat there smiling warmly and stared around the room as he always does.  Even that felt comforting to Sara.  After a while, he suddenly said, “The thing about ghosts is that they may fade but they always come back to haunt you." 

Sara furrowed her brow, amused. 

“When I look at your mother, do you know who I see?” 

Sara shakes her head.  

“I see my departed sister Jane in her face.  I see her fussiness that is full of caring and love.  When I look at your Uncle Rick, I see my father in the glint of his eyes, full of good humor and fun with a dash of mischief.  Do you know who I see when I look at you?” 

Sara nodded.  “It’s Grandma, right?  Everyone says I look like her.” 

“Yes, my beloved Dorothy.  She always had the uncanny ability to look right into your soul.”  Grandpa chuckled and turned to look her in the eye.  “Now imagine yourself when you get to my age.  Picture the ghosts that will be haunting you.  Then ask yourself this:  Will they be ones you welcome, ones that bring you joy like mine do?  Or will they instead be apparitions that bring you regret and melancholy?” 

“Grandpa?” 

‘If you can do that, you will always make the right choice when it comes to bringing the right people into your life.” His eyes gleamed with a faraway look.  “You’re a bright girl, Sara. You will know which ghosts you wish to see or not to see.” 

They sat in silence again. They listened to the crackling of the logs in the fire and the murmurs of voices from her family in the room.  Sara’s eyes were liquid. 

“I love you grandpa.”

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When you live to a certain age, almost everything will conjure up a memory of your past.  Whether these memories will be good ones or painful ones will depend on the actions and choices you make today.  I wanted to write a short story about that. Moreover, nothing conjures up stronger memories than during Christmas time. Word count – 845 words.