So happy Christmas, I love you baby.

'I could have been someone.  Well so could anyone. You took my dreams from me, when I first found you' - The Pogues & Kirsty McColl, Fairytale of New York

I listen and I think of my childhood. 

Mom on the couch, cigarette in one hand, knees curled up under her, skirt moving higher and higher as the drink kicks in. Dad in his chair, newspaper on his lap making us keep quiet while the news is on. Simmering tension in the room as they wrestle with their choices.

The Christmas cards are all stuck up on the wall. Holly, snow, robins, mistletoe. I've never seen mistletoe before and I wonder if it's magic. If you kiss under the mistletoe will you find true love? My teenage self, desperately romantic, hopes so.

Christmas is high drama. Twenty or more assorted family members and no-one knows if mom will get drunk.

Not just drunk, incapable drunk.

Not just tipsy, but helpless, mascara streaked tears and beautiful blue eyes full of pain.

Until then we'll sit under the bauhinia tree on lawn chairs and dig at each other. Gran will tight-lippedly do the dishes on the back verandah at around four when she disapproves of the conversation.

Dad will complain about the weather. 

Uncle T will tell tasteless jokes to mom in the pantry and try to get her to drop her pants when she's at the cusp of had enough and had too much. My cousins will tease me mercilessly.

The Christmas lights will twinkle in the bright sunlight. We'll all drink tea and eat cake.

We have so much to be thankful for. Let's count our blessings.

Thank god for the servants, even though they have the day off.  Thank god for Gran whose making three different kinds of cake and all the desserts.  Thank god that Uncle T will be bringing his booze and then taking it all home again.  Thank fucking Christ that we'll be playing happy families and pretending we all love each other while the sun beats through the humid air.

And silently we wonder when we'll see a better time? When will all our dreams come true?

The memories bitter, yet so familiar, knife-sharp and clear and I miss it.

I want it back, even with all the anguish. I miss my Mama, but she's 2000 miles away.

So happy Christmas, I love you.