Leftovers

Morcambe and Wise provide yuletide laughs from the past, their grainy images straining through the broken screen, smoke spewing from mangled wires that rise in ovation to expertly timed comedy routine.
Dancing candle flames diminish slipping closer to death and ornamental holder, the addition of holly and berry making the wax feel no more or less festive as it sizzles.
The perfectly paired carpet and furniture strewn with wrapping paper and blood. The effort of preparing presents and bullets. The instant of discovery and explosion, the aftermath of refuse and evidence.
Special occasion crockery stained with Turkey juice, gravy and gunpowder, chipped for eternity by spinning bone fragment.
Glittering tinsel decorations dimmed by Christmas fading, pine needles falling like tears of pain from once proud trees of celebration.
She will never live to see the joy of her own children.
She will never wrap presents, decorate her house, write cards, and roast chesnuts on an open fire.
And she will never find out that Santa Claus doesn't exist.