A Christmas Romance ©.
Short Story from the Pen of Author and Poet Tom Ryan, Thurles, Co. Tipperary.
The old man watched the towns people coming down the aisles of the little rural church. His tired heart lifted when he saw the old and the young together in all their Christmas finery and quiet and respectful jollity blessing themselves as they filed past the brightly-lit crib with the little statues of Mary, Joseph, baby Jesus and the animals laid out in the golden straw in tribute to the miracle of Bethlehem on one starry night, long, long ago. A magical night which was to change the way of the world forever and bring peace to men and women of good will everywhere.
For John the miracle and magical joy and romance of Christmas had always been intrinsically linked with what he termed the beautiful romances of his life and with the youthful vitality and enthusiasm for life that not even, age, illness, everyday trials and tribulations, could dampen.
He was glad he had wildly enjoyed his own youth despite discouragement in this regard from many conservative quarters, but never from his parents who had been ahead of their time with their great sense of tolerance and understanding of the human psyche and especially in relation to young people and their first romances.
His first kiss, he fondly recalled, was with a fair-haired young Secondary School student, following a carol-singing tour of their local town on an innocent Christmas Eve, long ago. Both very young lover, then every bit as shy as the other, but quite the innocent, when it came to that unforgettable attempt at youthful romance. The occurrence had taken place in the sitting room of the girl’s home, beside the Christmas tree and underneath the mistletoe; with the flames from a blazing log fire rendering golden both the room and the moment. They had both thought that life was full of incredible possibilities, intermingled with warmth and love and oh, such happiness as the world had never known.
All the romantic movies they had watched together in the backseat of the local cinema, with their incredibly beautiful heroines, adventurous and handsome heroes, had surely never portrayed such happiness and love as theirs. Maureen O’Hara and John Wayne were not even close.
He had basked in the glow of that delightful first romantic encounter for so long. Perhaps it had always been alive in his memory logged in the deepest recesses of his heart, especially at Christmas time.
Christmas after all is a time to remember naturally, but then life and love moves on and there had been so many other girls and his Christmases had always been special with them also.
He had always been fortunate to have met and wooed wonderful young ladies, but it had also been acknowledged by these same young girls that he had treated all of them, with great gentleness and thoughtfulness.
His first Christmas in Rathmines, Co. Dublin was also his first Christmas in fulltime employment and he had bought a humble set of colourful drinking glasses for Breda, his girlfriend then. He winced now at the memory, but it was all he could afford on a Clerical Officer’s salary in the Civil Service. Of course he would gladly have given her jewels and diamonds and even the sun and moon, had it been in his power to do so but she had appreciated the glasses and handled the box containing them like a golden casket. She had kissed him with affection and gratitude at Heuston Station, before he returned home for Christmas that year.
He was then twenty years of age and eagerly looking forward to going home to mingle with his small town folks, now since long departed from this world.
Home to the family, the Christmas Mass and the craic in the pubs and the girls and lads he had known at school before heading to the Big Smoke.
He loved the exchange of presents and greetings and great camaraderie and the log fire and Christmas tree and the heart -fluttering excitement of his mother, who so wanted everything as perfect as possible for him and indeed all the family. Oh, the joy of it all!
He thought now again of all the girls he had known with a special attachment. He liked to think he had loved them all in a special way and he had always enjoyed his Christmases with them whether with the kindly dark-haired teacher in Dublin or the vivacious blonde secretary in London, with whom he had enjoyed the first Christmas dinner which he had cooked himself in a flat in West London, a long way from the magical sparkle of the Irish Mi na Nollag.
There had been so many young ladies in his romance-strewn life, and even after he had married, he had never felt that he was in any way unfaithful to his devoted and beautiful wife, when he took these sweet nostalgic journeys down memory lane. We can, he felt, love so many people in so many different ways in this life; if we are fortunate enough to do so.
Indeed, his wife was sometimes mildly amused if somewhat unimpressed by this “ould talk” of his love interests of other years. She had, perhaps rightly, put it down to the doting ways of advancing age, or to the mild and harmless eccentricities of a proud man no longer, except in memory, the virile or wildly exciting and attractive young man of other years. He smiled now as he recalled citing her as ‘ageist’ for uttering such remarks, as the choir and congregation sang ”Joy To the World”.
When people were a joy to each other what else could there be worth having, he felt and he again recalled all the girls of every Christmas of his life, all now gone to Heaven and all of whom had influenced his life so much for the better.
He began to weep a little now at his memories, shedding tears of love and gratitude for such joyful experiences and the wonderful people who had enriched his life. They now appeared to parade, as in a dream before his eyes; each a vision of who and what mattered more than anything else in his world. Each now to him a blissful particle of a vision of a greater love.
He thought now also of his dear wife, Elizabeth, whom he had loved so very deeply, for so many years and with whom, he had ever felt, it had been Christmas all year around. He was truly, eternally grateful for all their time together for so many years.
He thought momentarily of the dreadful disease which had taken Elizabeth away from him one Christmas some years previously. He wept now, not in sorrow, but in the joy of remembering the good times, the three wonderful children she had given him. The many magical moments all the days of their happy lives together. Oh, yes and the many rows and the making up, of course.
People said Christmas was a time for remembering; yes true, he thought, and a sad time for some, but not for him. With Elizabeth his Christmases were always happy, always loving and caring. Despite the struggles and vicissitudes of everyday living, he had never been anything but in love with his darling Elizabeth. Life had been the living love of an eternal nature beyond words or explanation which neither needed.
He continued to weep, silently now, in the dark brown pew at the back of the little church, as the choir sang “Silent Night” and he thought again of romance. Now, it was not of all the girls he had known, but of the one and only; his special girl – Elizabeth. He so wanted to be with her again; to be together forever and eternally in love. Oh what a happy Christmas that would be.
He suddenly felt a little weak now with the intensity of his feelings and then he saw her; his Elizabeth, his dear and darling Elizabeth. Oh, the joy, the magic, the romance; oh happy, happy Christmas.
Later, after Mass, when the congregation had gone home, the young Sacristan found him slumped forward as if in prayer in the pew, with a photograph of a beautiful young woman firmly grasped in his hand. The young man looked at the name at the back of the coloured print. It was “Elizabeth” and she was pictured beside a Christmas tree, with mistletoe hanging from the ceiling and a brightly burning log fire in a room rendered golden by the light of the flames of a warm and happy hearth.
“Lord of Mercy on your soul, John, this Christmas Eve. I guess you sure loved that Elizabeth”, said the Sacristan. “I think he still does” said the wise and insightful old priest who was ministering to John and who had just celebrated Elizabeth’s Anniversary Mass.
Tom Ryan, “Iona”, Rahealty, Thurles, Co. Tipperary.
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