Christmas morning.
He woke to the soft orchestra of a bath running and a woman\'s humming in the house that was usually home to just he and his cats.
At the end of his bed was a stocking. He had not laid it there. An envelope wrapped with ribbon peered out.
It had his name written on the front. He thought he recognised the writing and the notepaper.
He opened and read as the humming turned into a song.
Driving home for Christmas
Would be a hefty investment of time
You see i\'d give my sleep for a journey
That took me to what\'s mine
I\'d wander through my twilight hours
The sweet imaginings of my mind
To paint you perfect pictures
Of a home long left behind
Soaring across the oceans
To plant dreams inside your head
To wake up beside your fire
Alive, at home, a soul undead
I\'ve taken many journies
To find the place called home
Through my prose you let me show you
A place we\'ve always known
A place of love and being
Enchanted by our dreams
Woven into existence
Words which sewed the seams
Of a world where we were welcome
A world which knew our song
The night you finally took us home
A world worthy to belong
He turned the page.
Thanks for indulging my dreams last night.
If you believe in dreams, you might find me one day making you an English breakfast in your kitchen.
He pinched his arm. He could still hear the singing. He noticed a dress with gingerbread men making a beautiful mess on the floor.