Shall I stand on the outside? And watch as the lights go up, the tinsel wraps around the tree, and the stockings are hung? Shall I watch as the children laugh, and the mothers sing, while the fathers light the fire? Their stomachs are filled and their hearts are warmed and they go to sleep happy, whilst I watch. And for a while my heart sings because I can imagine that as me. And for a while my sole-less sneakers are their comfy slippers, and my dirty hands are washed and cleaned and grasp a knife and fork.

I can smell the roast as Mother cuts it, and she gently taps my hand when I try to take a piece before the table is set. Father’s newspaper rustles, and he begins to read aloud, his fire crackling, providing background music as his voice smoothes over the rough edges of my day. It’s so warm that the tips of my fingers are pink, and I wrinkle my nose as Mother tugs a strand of my hair. She hands me a small candy cane to hang on the tree.

Truly, this year, Father has outdone himself, and has decked the halls with holly. The tree smells of pine and earth, and I inhale its scent as I hang the cane. It asks me to remember a time when it grew in the forest, surrounded with snow and fresh air. Now it will spend a short time decked in beauty, and in turn lending beauty to our sitting room, mimicking the short happiness we are afforded in our lives.

There are presents, strewn across the floor, and a glass of milk on the mantelpiece before the fire. Next to it is a piece of purple paper and a pink pen. I write: Dear Saint Nicholas, before I realize that I have everything I want already. I ball up the paper and throw it into the fire, so that by its ashes Santa will hear that I am content.

There is a nock at the door, and Mother places her oven gloves down. Wiping her hands on her apron she answers. I peek from behind her, and behold the angelic sight. The falling snow catches the light as it flies, like fallen angel’s feathers. At the end of our gravel path stand a chorus of singers, their sweet tones ringing towards the heavens, and the angels they so imitate. We clap as they finish, and wish them a merry Christmas; they move on. As Mother moves to close the door I think I catch a glimpse of someone, standing barefoot in the snow. I shake my head: it must only be an echo of me.

Father’s newspapers whisper again as he folds them, placing them on the chair he vacates. He joins Mother at the table, and calls me to join them. “Marguerite” he says… No, he calls me something sweet, like ‘Margie-may,’ and Mother laughs at his nickname for me. “Margie-may” he calls, and I skip to the table. This time when I reach for a piece of roast no one stops me. It smells so good I almost don’t want to eat it. Almost.

I pop it into my mouth, and suddenly, suddenly it’s so hard to imagine. So hard to imagine it melting in my mouth, that it crumbles to dust. Everything begins to fall around me, the house, the tree, Mother, Father. Suddenly there’s nothing, and I’m back to being me. To being little Marguerite on the street. Cold, hungry, penniless Marguerite, standing on the outside looking in. Watching as the lights go up, and the tinsel wraps around the trees, and the stockings are hung. Watching as the children laugh and the mothers sing while the fathers light the fire. Their stomachs are filled and their hearts are warmed and they go to sleep happy, whilst I’m Watching. And for a while my heart sings, because I can imagine that as me.