gone

There's this smell of blueberry muffins in the air whenever I close my eyes, freshly baked, there's the warm air from the oven that smells sweet and rather like a family holiday than christmas, and I don't even like blueberry muffins but when you proposed this I didn't tell you. Neither of us could deny the occasion, the date; not with the soft glow on the streets everywhere, the festive lights, the decorations, and there was even this thin layer of snow, or rather frost that I pretended to be snow, on the windows and cars and the sparkling wetness on the pavement. It was, for once, a calm Christmas, but still you knew about my issues with this day and though we agreed to overcome them - fleeing wouldn't be possible, it would just feel like more desperation - you did invite me over to celebrate it as some important holiday in winter that had nothing to do with angels and holy babies. The muffins were somewhat chewy, softer than they should be, formless, but who were we to complain? The drinks we'd mixed were non-alcoholic but honestly amazing, some ominous creation of tea, spices and, because I insisted, strawberry juice. We'd warmed it up, then added whipped cream, which made it ridiculously sweet but somehow we still both loved it, and despite my doubts that you might just be lying not to hurt me when you said you liked the taste, I realised that it would still be fair even then since I would have preferred chocolate over blueberries. The kitchen was messy as always, but in a way that made me feel safe, and your hair, half braided into a complex coiffure, was just as chaotic on the half I hadn't gotten around to do yet when I suddenly jumped up and said: "the oven!", worrying all our efforts might just have burned to death. They'd survived, and in this very moment, you were taking them out, wearing thick gloves so you wouldn't burn your hands. You smile at me, but as I try to focus on your face I accidentally open my eyes again and there I am, alone, on a bench beneath some tree. And when my vision clears up again despite the tears in my eyes that I only notice now and I see the grey sky above me, the dark trees, I smell the cold and I can almost feel the frost on the tombstone before me, the smell of blueberries disappears, and suddenly there's nothing in this world I'd rather eat.

"Merry Christmas", I whisper, but you're not there to reply.