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Red wine is an elixir of reminiscence.
As twilight fades into dusk, you let the velvety Cabernet Sauvignon warm your bloodstream and bring forth memories of the festive seasons gone by. Childhood recollections of sneaking down the hallway before sunrise, captivated by the magical scene made by the plump man who somehow slid down the chimney. Wrapping presents galore while sitting by the twinkling evergreen, the stacks piling higher and higher each year. Baking desserts and listening to Christmas music, the scent of gingerbread mingling with the seaside air. All those moments were nostalgia happening in real-time, engulfing you until they unraveled like a ribbon box of wistfulness.
You're lost in a blissful reverie while watching Harry swiftly round the kitchen island. He's eating the last half of a frosted cookie and untucking his black henley from his sweatpants.
"You've gone quiet on me," he says while chewing, his fist raised to his mouth.
Your vision breaks away from him and refocuses on the entrancing flames in the fireplace. "Just thinking."
"'Bout what?" he asks, reclaiming his glass of wine that he abandoned on the mantle shelf.
"How this will be our eighth Christmas together."
He whistles in a decrescendo and sits next to you. "Really? How are you not sick of me yet?"
"Trust me, you push the limit sometimes."
"Only because I love you."
You roll your eyes affectionately, then say, "I was also thinking about how emotional I'll be tomorrow."
Harry smiles as he begins soothingly rubbing your back. "You always get emotional on Christmas."
At the mere thought of it, you flatten your lips and look at him miserably. The childlike wonder you'll get to witness is nothing to shed tears over, yet you can't help but know you'll feel the pitiful pull on your maternal heartstrings.
"I'm a mess," you say defeatedly.
"No, no, no. Come here and give me a hug." He instinctively reaches for your hand and tugs you toward him. "Bring it in."
You clumsily situate yourself in his lap and curl into his warm body. Your muscles relax, but the tears still spill over. It's irrevocable.
"Why are you crying?" Harry croons, propping his chin on your head and swaying you consolingly. "Hmm? You break my heart when you cry."
Sniffling, you bury your face into his chest and mumble, "She's growing up too fast."
His throat bobs. "I know. It hurts me too."
"But it hurts, like, deep in my soul. Sometimes I physically feel the ache when I look at her."
"She's three." The featherlight touch of his fingertips trails up and down your spine. "That's still young, yeah? And don't forget we've got a new baby."
