When I was a very little person, I would watch The Snowman on Channel 4 every Christmas, though I haven’t seen it since I left England the first time. I heard the theme song the other day and asked my mum why it made me so sad. I remember lying underneath the glass table in our dining room listening to it for hours and the familiar melancholy feeling it still gives. It must be because of what happens in the end.
They fly over what looks very much like Brighton, with the pier and the ballroom (before it was burned down), the Royal Pavilion and the sea, maybe that’s why I like it there so much.
This morning was:
disappointment in a missing brother
bubbles in my orange juice
the scent of new books
lovely smelling jasmine tea in pyramid bags from a green geisha cup
cozy new clothes and lovely lotions
mum laughing at her Geico gecko
Caeridd being cute and completely concentrated on lego building
battling Caius’ inflatable sumo wrestling pirate with my ninja, laughing because neither of us could figure out how to drive them without spinning around and crashing into things…
Christmas is for the joy of playing.
People digging into my bones and making me wonder if all that I am is really that unfathomable
sadness for the things that have happened in this house that has turned it to this
confusion about being. No one can look inside this head and I’m quite sure that would make things simpler.
Maybe I just need distance…