A Bitter Thaw

"It's April, Beverley." My voice felt thick, scratchy. I hadn't used it much today. The phone pressed cold against my ear, the rain tapping a rhythm against the windowpane.

"I know what month it is, Arthur. It's about… arrangements. For December."

A sharp intake of breath, silent. December. Already. I pinched the bridge of my nose, feeling the faint throb start behind my eyes. "December's a long way off."

"It comes faster than you think. And I just… I need to know. For travel. For everyone else."

Her words, clipped and precise, sliced through the quiet of my living room. They didn't feel like a question, more like a demand. The kind of demand that carried the weight of a thousand past disappointments, each one wrapped in glitter and tinsel. My gaze drifted to the window. The trees outside, just starting to unfurl their tentative green, seemed to mock the conversation.

"What do you want to know?" I asked, my tone flat, devoid of any real curiosity.

"Well, are you even going to be in the country? Last year…"

Last year. The words hung in the air, an invisible accusation. Last year, I’d been in a small, damp cottage by the coast, pretending to be sick. Hiding. It had seemed like a good idea at the time. A strategic retreat from the annual battlefield of forced cheer and simmering resentment. But the quiet had only amplified the echo of their absence. That was the thing about Christmas, wasn't it? Even when you ran, it followed.

"I'll be here," I said, more to the rain than to her. "I don't have plans to… flee the country this year."

A sigh on the other end. Not one of relief, but of weary exasperation. "Look, Arthur, it’s not just about you. The children. They ask. They wonder."

The children. Always the children. As if they were delicate glass figurines, forever on the verge of shattering, and I, the clumsy ox, forever threatening to knock them over. It wasn't fair. None of it was. I traced a pattern in the condensation on the glass. The air in the flat felt heavy, damp.

"They know where I am," I countered. "They have my number."

"It's not the same. Christmas is… traditional. Family. Togetherness." She made the words sound like a mantra, a sacred obligation that I, and I alone, consistently failed.

"And expensive," I muttered, too low for her to hear, I hoped. But perhaps she did. Perhaps she just chose to ignore it. Everything was expensive. The presents, the travel, the obligatory ham. It wasn't just the money, though. It was the weight of expectation, the performance. The smiling. The pretending.

"Arthur? Are you listening?"

"I'm listening. Just… December. It's a lot. And it's only April."

"Fine. I'll email you the provisional itinerary. Just… think about it. Please."

"I'll think about it," I said, knowing I wouldn't. Not really. I'd shove it into a mental drawer, lock it, and try not to open it until the last possible minute. That was my tradition. The annual avoidance.

The line clicked dead. I lowered the phone slowly, setting it on the chipped wooden coffee table. The silence rushed back in, but it wasn't the peaceful silence I craved. It was a weighted silence, thick with the residue of the conversation, the ghosts of past arguments and unspoken criticisms.

Echoes of Holly

I walked over to the bookshelf, running a finger along the spines of books I hadn't touched in years. The air was cool against my skin. The heating hadn't been on for days. Didn't need it. Not in April. But the cold seemed to seep in from somewhere else, from a memory, perhaps.

My eyes landed on a small, dusty box tucked behind a row of old paperbacks. I hadn't noticed it before. How long had it been there? A shoebox, stained slightly at the corners, held together by a fraying length of string. My hands felt clumsy as I pulled it out, a small scrape of cardboard on the wood.

Opening it, I found a tangled mess of what looked like old fairy lights. And beneath them, wrapped in a brittle piece of tissue paper, a small, hand-painted wooden star. One of the children had made it, years ago. I remembered the glitter, sticky on their fingers, the serious concentration on their faces. It was a Christmas ornament, crude and beautiful, with one of the points slightly broken.

I turned it over in my palm. The paint was faded, chipped in places. I ran my thumb over the rough wood. That particular Christmas… it had been the last one where we'd all been truly, unequivocally, together. Before the cracks became chasms. Before the weight of everything became too much to bear. Before I understood why Christmas was so difficult.

It wasn't just the logistics, the presents, the forced smiles for relatives I barely tolerated. It was the expectation. The sheer, monumental pressure for everything to be perfect. The perfect tree, the perfect dinner, the perfect family portrait. And when it wasn't, when it inevitably fell short of the impossible ideal, the fallout felt catastrophic. It felt like a personal failure, amplified by the relentless cheer of the season.

Every year, the same cycle. The build-up, the frantic shopping, the forced optimism. Then the crash, the arguments, the quiet despair that settled in the aftermath, leaving a faint, acrid smell like burnt sugar. And always, always, the lingering question: why couldn't it be easier? Why did this one particular holiday, designed to bring joy, bring so much… dread?

I put the star back in the box, carefully, almost reverently. The fairy lights, I left tangled. No point. The rain outside picked up, a sudden downpour, lashing against the glass. The early spring light, already thin, seemed to dim even further.

I walked to the kitchen, poured myself a glass of water. The tap squeaked, a high, metallic whine. The silence returned, yet still felt incomplete. A half-finished thought, a half-remembered fear. December was indeed a long way off. But it was already here, a subtle, cold ache beneath the surface of this spring day. It was always here, waiting.

My hands felt cold. My breath, when I let it out, seemed to carry a faint chill that had nothing to do with the temperature of the room. The children’s voices, even in my memory, sounded distant, like echoes caught in a sudden draft.

I drank the water, savouring the coldness. The glass was heavy. The rain continued its steady assault, a relentless, quiet insistence that reminded me of the ticking clock on an empty wall. The thought of December, of the impending performance, settled deep in my stomach, a knot, cold and tight. This wasn't just about last year. It was about every year. And the fear that this year would just be another echo.

I watched the water run down the inside of the glass, slow and deliberate. It felt like time. Like it was all just slipping away, and I was just watching it, unable to do anything but feel the chill.

The empty space on the bookshelf where the box had been felt like a missing tooth, a small, subtle gap. A reminder.

The rain kept coming. Drenching the early blossoms, washing away the winter dust, but somehow, not quite cleaning everything.

I stood there, by the window, long after the glass was empty, watching the leaves on the neighbour's tree, still clenched tight, resisting the full bloom of spring. Just like me. Resisting. Waiting for a winter that felt perpetually on its way.

The ominous feeling didn't leave. It just settled, a low thrum beneath the surface of my skin, a quiet promise of what was to come.