The Ghosts of Christmas Past

When we were kids we’d eat and open presents late, when you returned from a shift at the hospital; then turn on the TV for The Snowman, crying every year when he melted.

When I got older I’d pretend to sleep as you crept in to my bedroom with a stocking filled with sweets and the New Scientist. Eyes half closed, smiling at our shared pretence. Later, I’d creep into your room and leave a stocking too, stuffed full with three daughters’ worth of gratitude and love.

When you got old you fought us, bitter and indignant that we looked at your kitchen with dread, deciding we were better placed to cook the turkey.