Without them at Christmas

This was sent round the KCU email group. It is hard to think about Christmas at the moment when so many people are in pain, so many dead.
My best friend's mother died a week last Sunday, her funeral was on Tuesday.

This is a strange Christmas. But for many people, it will be extremely difficult.
This was written by somone who will be missing someone they loved this Christmas.

It is like being the picture called The Scream
standing in the middle of a crowd, but you can’t scream
because everyone will think you are mad,
which you are; mad (and guilty) with anger
at the death, at yourself for what you did or didn’t say or do.
Others will say – don’t feel guilty, you shouldn’t - but you do.
Being in a crowd can be more lonely than on your own,
reminds you of your own isolation and desolation, like a grain of sand on a beach
just being washed up and down with the tide through life,
but you don’t care where you go.
Getting out the decorations;
last time they touched them, last time they were there, what was said last year?
Seeing that picture of them – where has it gone, what happened, why?
Hearing a song you once shared, suddenly feeling that pain again as before – knowing the feelings you had are gone,
that leap in your heart,
hugs and knowing glances you had are gone.
Those jokes you once shared will never be shared again,
no-one will understand what the joy the silly Harry Hill characters could bring,
that stupid Tommy Cooper joke that always made them laugh;
but you don’t want to cry because you know the pain it will bring will hurt so much
and you just don’t want to go there – you want to run away.
Everyone is trying to be jolly, but you wish it would all just go away,
but you have to carry on for your child/children, others
and that everything you do is difficult, more difficult than usual,
because in the pit of your stomach you are missing someone,
no matter what happened, cross words that were said, you miss them.
You just want to know that they are ok and looking down on people,
tying up their shoelaces, doing those ordinary things
– but you don’t know,
please
just let me know it is ok?
But you don't know.

I keep crying tonight.