Everybody dies, Dan, then.

Everybody come back.

Isn't that same?

You tried to get into the locked drawer today, didn't you?

How do the dead come back, mother?

What's the secret? Nearly 40 years ago, it was Christmas, just like it's Christmas today.

But it is different.

Then there were people and lights and drinking and dancing and flirting, but now I find myself alone.

It's Christmas Eve and the cat is out.

Perhaps he has a party to go to.

More faithful, the dog curls by the fire where heaped coals burn orange and black,

with blue and yellow flames fluttering softly around them.

Looking at coals like that reminds me of the tales my grandfather told me to while away the

time when I was young.

That's sixty years since.

And I still miss him.

There was so much time then.

There isn't so much left anymore, but that's all right. I'm comfortable with

the fire and the dog and await the return of my black cat Lucifer from his night on the tiles.

I was an orphan. A banal traffic accident killed my parents on the minor road where it kinks

between the trees on the

sinuous way from Rottington to Sanath.

...