Hopeless Wishes

This was originally somewhere else, so if you recognize it, that's why.

Anyways, this is my first story on this site, so please don't be too harsh.

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Anna is a wild little girl, always excited about something. I watch as she twirls around the extravagantly decorated Christmas tree, tunelessly singing one carol or another; one I remember hearing before, though I can’t recall how it goes.

She comes over and tugs on my skirt. ‘Come dance with me, Grandma!’ she says, her eyes alight with excitement.

For a moment I am jealous - if only I could be like her. If only I could spin and jump like I was irrevocably free, like I could do anything I wanted. Instead, I am growing older, weaker and sadder, spending my days wishing there was no such thing as time. Because if time did not exist, I would be happy again. I know it.

But I push that all aside when I respond.

‘I can’t, Anna, dear,’ I say, and my heart breaks at the look on her sweet little face. ‘I would if I could,’ I add, praying that she will forgive me.

She will, of course; I don’t ever need to ask for her forgiveness. She is young naïve and trusting, like all children are. That is why we love them so much. Because they are all so ready to love us back.

She goes back to dancing by herself, unconcerned, being everything I want to be; quick and lively and free and happy. She jumps around laughing merrily to herself, not caring what anyone else thinks, just happy because it is Christmas time. For her, life cannot get better.

And it probably won’t. She will grow up and get weaker, no longer able to jump. She will become tired of carrying the weight of her responsibilities and what will feel like the entire world on her shoulders. She will go numb from all the pain, and she will no longer get excited about trivial things such as Christmas. When you grow up, Christmas is just another day of the year. It’s just another day where you struggle to get out of bed, lose your breath climbing stairs and cry yourself to sleep.

I do not understand it any longer, for it is a very dramatic change, to remember seeing something that was so full of joy, and then to see it again, only to find it boring and unremarkable.

My daughter Cassandra walks into the room, carrying a tray covered in steaming mugs of hot chocolate and tea, her other, older, daughter Lucy, following at her heels. Lucy is losing her love of Christmas already, I realise; she does not seem to care. I desperately wish she could see what she is doing to herself. Once you fall out of love, you don’t usually fall back in. That’s why you should cherish every moment, every laugh, and every dance – because it will all change eventually, and you won’t realise just how much you loved it until you can’t do it anymore.

Anna the beautiful shouts out all of a sudden, and we all turn to see what’s going on. ‘It’s snowing!’ she cries, pointing out the window and jumping up and down. ‘It’s snowing, look, Grandma, it’s snowing! Snowing, snowing, snowing!’

‘I see that, dear,’ I say, and a slight smile graces my face. How I love small children.

‘Quiet down, Anna,’ Cassandra says exasperatedly, and Anna does, although she doesn’t stop jumping happily, her dark curls that make her so different from our fair, blonde side of the family bouncing up and down cheerily. ‘And stop jumping,’ Cassandra adds sternly. ‘If you don’t stop jumping all over the place, you’ll give poor Grandma a headache.’

Anna sits down on the chair beside me obediently, although she keeps kicking her legs, swinging them backwards and forwards without rhythm, the way all children do. I am glad she does. I am happy for her, because really, it’s no fun to be still. If she were to ask, I would assure her that if we could, we elders would all swing our legs around as well.

I cannot believe that before long, the little girl who sits before me will be off to school. I remember it well – the fear, the excitement. And I remember my friends.

Laura was my best friend; we were inseparable throughout our school years and after, as well. We grew apart, eventually, as most good friends do, but we never really forgot each other, if the unending stream of Christmas cards was any indication. It’s impossible to forget your very best friends, not even old age can take that away, even if it takes away so much else. It even took Laura.

Laura, my friend, my companion, was gone, six feet under, lost to the world forever. Was there anything really crueller than having your friends die around you? I felt worse when I heard that she had died than I ever felt during all of the Second World War. Then, at least, I had Laura then to help me through. Now I have no one. My husband, the insufferable William Degrenne, is no comfort to me.

I sigh pathetically and hope no one has noticed my internal struggle. Cassandra smiles at me while Lucy chats on about nothing, and I smile thinly in return, wishing I could really love my daughter like I know I should.

I turn my head towards the window and watch the snow fall. It is very bright, and I have to squint so it doesn’t hurt my delicate eyes. It is white, I realise, white like rebirth. White like purity. White like past sins forgiven, and white like innocence. I sigh again, knowing that I will never again be pure or forgiven or innocent. Because I am old. There is no other reason. The longer you live, the more you see, sin and do. The more you lose.

I close my eyes and breathe in deeply, deciding it’s best to do so while I can. After all, who knows how many more Christmases I have left?

So I will enjoy this while I can. I will smile at my daughter, and play with Anna. I will pay more attention to Lucy. I will reconcile with William. I will find closure for Laura.

I sigh. I am dreaming again. I will not really; I do not have enough will to do something like that.

I am weak, and I cannot change now. I will have to sit here and watch my granddaughter do everything I cannot.

So every time she smiles, I will as well, because there is clearly something to smile about. Just because I do not know what it is does not mean it is not there.

But it is when she cries that I will be upset, for what is it that she has to cry about?

She is not old, like me. She is young and able.

Of that, she should be proud.