As night descends on Christmas Eve, ice turns charcoal-black as chasmic-cold fills the half-empty bed where my un-held hand reaches out to grasp the void that once was you.
In the morning, Christmas comes as it has always come. And though it is the same and not the same, the manger is not empty, the daylight star still shines, the angel choir still sings “Peace on earth,” and in my memories there is joy.