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It is the things we don’t speak about;

the lies we hide in silence.

 November and a icy wind comes from the North.

The island is bundled down.

Petrified white trees covered with a white veil of frost.

Our generator is acting up and the lights flicker on and off.

Mother screams ,”Arthur, you’re gas lighting me!”

Father laughed. Jim, our one armed fence man  had come to help.

The two men made pounding sounds and mother held her head.

Father rode with Jim to the village to collect the mail.

He returned, waving a dirty looking envelope, waving it at mother.

“Your beloved has finally written you.” Mother’s face turned white.

“Give me the letter, give it.” Mother tore the oily, smudged envelope.

“He’s coming home for Christmas. Oh joyous heaven.”

Father started to laugh. “The fisher of men is coming home.”

I looked at father. “How is Buddy, a fisher of men? I thought that’s

what they called Jesus?”

“Shut up, Arthur. You spoil everything.”

No one answered my question. Teddy was barking. She wanted in.

I hugged my cold, wet dog, “Poor Teddy, only sheep to live with.”

“We’ll be having leg of lamb for Christmas!” Father said  with

a certain pride. Mother glared at him. “So, what does our ex-football star

have to say?” Mother backed away towards her room.

“The letter is for me…for me.”

Mother’s mental state began to improve after the letter. She started

wearing regular clothes instead of her bathrobe.

One night I got up for some water. I heard my father weeping in

his room.