The Christmas Gift by Ken Whitson, a warm mug of mulled red wine

It’s been a year now since you went away, and my guitar still won’t let me sing your song, the one I wrote that Christmas Eve. Now, as then, I place a single package under the tree, my song to you within. The bow, your favorite shade of red, sits slightly askew now, like my life. But the paper, like my love, still sparkles and shines. A song is all I could afford that year. You’d have smiled and said it’s more than enough, more than you had for me. I’d have smiled back, seeing the lie. We’d have hugged then. And kissed. But our smiles never came.

About the author

 Ken is a retired civil servant who hasn't yet figured out what retirement means. When he's not consulting or otherwise unretiring, he enjoys crafting vivid, emotionally charged stories with unconventional themes—or hunting little green fish, AKA, bass. His work recently appeared in Dragon Soul Press's The Fear Doctor Anthology.

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