Jim reluctantly emerged from his snooze by the fire. "Damn that snow," he complained aloud, as he struggled to get up off the deep armchair. The evening had crept in while he had slept and in the fading light, he could see the snow had become even heavier. "The bohreen must surely be impassable," he thought.

This was the loneliest Christmas Eve of Jim's life. Since his beloved wife Mary died, his three children always came home for Christmas. But this year was different. None of them could make it. Having shovelled an excess amount of coal onto the dying embers, Jim went to the door and gazed at the icy landscape. An eerie silence enveloped the hills and valleys. Bird song had ceased for the night as the little feathered creatures sought warmth in the sparse winter foliage now draped in its snow-white gown.

Jim glanced at the cotoneaster growing against the wall of the house. Not one single red berry remained. The bare branches looking like tubes of exotic crystal. He was happy to let the birds have the berries. He felt protective towards them. Tomorrow he would put out some porridge oatlets. Blasts of bitter arctic wind funnelled up the valley, pushing the snow ahead of it. Icy flakes stung Jim's weather beaten face as he turned his back on the frozen scene. Downhearted, he slowly went back into the dim room. His hand reached for the light switch. No response. Not surprisingly, the electricity had gone. With a heavy heart, he lit the Christmas candle and placed it on the windowsill. "Mary would never forgive me if I didn't".

'Light the way for weary travellers'. That's what she always said each year as she touched the wick with a lighted match, forgetting that there were no 'weary travellers' for many long years. Certain there would be no 'weary travellers' this night, he still felt better for lighting it. It was a tradition he would uphold as long as he was here. His Gran often told him when he was a child that the Christmas Candle glowing in the window was a symbol of welcome to Mary and Joseph as they travelled on looking for shelter when they found no room in the Inn in Bethlehem. The plain red candle was the only apparent sign that Christmas was nigh. For what was the point of putting up a Christmas tree? Jim eased his frail body into the cushions of his old armchair and watched the warm flame of the candle blink and flicker in the window.

His mind drifted back to happier times when the children were young and Christmas was a wonderful time. The Festive Season began on December 8th, which was a Holy day, and after Mass Jim, his wife Mary, and the three children - John, Patricia and Maria - headed for town, which was six miles away. His face crinkled into a sad smile pushing the tears over the lower rims of his rheumy eyes as memories of those frenzied shopping expeditions came to mind. The shopping bags would be laden with a plethora of presents and all sorts of Christmas fare. Year after year, the photo was taken with Santy. Then one Christmas, Patricia said ."I'll just look on this year. I'm too big now for a photo with Santy." Mary's eyes locked for a brief instant with her husband's. A silent acknowledgment of the passing of time. Too soon, John and Maria outgrew the visit to Santy also, and a little of the magic dispensed and evaporated as that tradition was left in the past. Still, there was the holly and the Christmas tree to be collected. They were lucky to have a grove of holly trees a little way up the valley. On the second last Sunday before Christmas each year the five of them would set off with a saw, a bill hook and a roll of twine to tie the holly in bunches.

He looked around the dim room to where the holly should be. The pictures looked bare and somewhat naked without the green shiny leaves spattered with the crimson berries. He half smiled again. How lucky he was to have his precious memories...a deep font filled with the past. As long as he can access that he will be relatively happy, in a sense.

Christmas Eve was a day of exhaustive preparations amid the festive decorations. Brightly coloured streamers hung in intricate patterns from the ceilings. Holly, tinsel and balloons transformed the house. A variety of Christmas Cards took their rightful place on the mantelpiece over the fire. The Christmas tree itself was the main focus. That was the highlight of the preparations. going off up to the wood near the bog road and finding the right tree. It had to be large and just the proper shape and sometimes it was difficult to find exactly what they required. Yet, they always managed to find the perfect specimen. Casting his eyes towards the corner of the room where the tree should be, Jim drifted back and could see Mary and the little children lovingly hanging bright shiny balls on the spiky branches. The excitement was tangible as slowly the fir tree came to life. He listened to the childish chatter and the inevitable questions about Santy and he heard Mary's answers, patient and re-assuring as always. A splinter of over-whelming sorrow pierced his heart as the scene faded and was replaced with reality...an empty space...no Christmas tree...no Mary...no children. Only the memories so dearly cherished. Their worth was unquantifiable.

The old clock on the mantelpiece ticked away as it had done for as long as Jim could remember. Tick-tock-tick tock. In the empty silence it sounded loud and intrusive, demanding his attention. He turned his face towards it. In a few seconds the chimes would announce the hour - five o'clock. The snowflakes were now being driven against the windowpane. The light from the candle catching and reflecting in the crystals before they were dashed against the glass. Jim was mesmerised as he watched the snowflakes, which soon became the soft downy white feathers from the breast of the goose they had for Christmas dinner.

The little out-house where the plucking took place, took on the appearance of a snowstorm as he pulled the feathers from the flesh of the large bird. The children delighted in helping with this task and ended up chasing around the place, endeavouring to catch the tiny feathers as they danced in the frosty air. His eyes grew heavy as the coals reddened and warmed his face. The fire cast a warm glow around the room as he continued to indulge in his innermost thoughts. It was another Christmas morning. Mary and he listened from their warm cosy bed as the children crept tentatively along the corridor, silent with apprehension. Had Santy come? Squeals of delight suddenly erupted. "Mammy, Daddy," they called in unison, "Come see, look what Santy brought " Under the tree lay snakes and ladders, storybooks, dolls, dinky cars, a tea set, a sewing set and bags of sweets. The bitter wind that Christmas morning brought a severe blizzard, which had to be braved in order to get to Mass. He could still picture Patricia and Maria in their new pink knitted bonnets, which Mary had made. John had his new woolly hat pulled down over his ears as they set out on the long walk to Kilrossanty church.

The children always loved the snow. To them it was a great adventure - for the adults, only misery. Jim and Mary each carried a holly wreath, which they had made themselves to place on the graves of their loved ones, long dead but not forgotten. They stood in the swirling snow in silent prayer. The green foliage of the wreaths stood out from the stark white of the snow. But in the little time they stood there, the snow had already begun to land and quickly there was more white than green. The church was cold and people coughed and sneezed but, despite the severe weather, every pew was full. Maria couldn't quite get into the spirit of the Mass as she watched the altar candles hiss and spit. She turned to her father and whispered, " Will the goose be alright...it won't burn will it?" "Ah Maria", Jim whispered, as sleep threatened to overpower him.

For an instant he thought he heard Mary's soft voice calling to him, and even though the fire blazed he felt a chill come over him. ."I knew I heard you", Jim said in a low voice when he saw the familiar figure standing between him and the flickering candle. She beckoned to him. "I'll come with you now Mary my love, there is nothing to keep me here". He reached out to take her outstretched hand.

"No", "Not yet Jim, not yet". He watched her shake her head. "Not yet".

Down at the end of the boreen John, Patricia and Maria battled in vain against the deep drifts and eventually had to abandon the car. They couldn't wait to give their Dad the surprise of his life. Patricia had flown in from London where she was a nurse in Guys Hospital, John was in the bank in Dublin and Maria worked in a solicitor's office, also in the capital. They had been on the road all day. Piling the turkey, ham and all the trimmings and, of course, the presents, into bags, they moved slowly in the direction of home. Their progress was slow in the dark. Their boots and shoes sinking ever deeper into the snow drifts.

Jim thought he heard sounds in the distance. He listened. holding his breath. pushing his body forward on the chair. his ears straining. Could it be voices? No, he decided, perhaps it was only a dog barking somewhere. He sighed and rested his back against the cushion. The bright light of the Christmas candle was the first thing Patricia, John and Maria saw as their home came into view...it was a most welcoming sight. "To light the way for the weary travellers", the three said, all at the same time, echoing their Mother's words. "Well here are three extremely weary travellers ", John said laughing. "Shh" Patricia scolded. "Keep your voice down, he will hear you."

The room was dark but for the scant light from the candle and the mellow glow from the fire. "Merry Christmas, Dad", John whispered to the sleeping figure but no sound came from Jim. Maria gently shook her father. Patricia automatically felt his pulse and for one brief moment they thought they were too late.

By the first light of morning John was up on the bog road. "Snow or no snow we are having a Christmas tree", he announced. Poor Jim nursed a sore head...too many hot toddies the night before. The girls busied themselves with the cooking. Later Jim kept vigil over the turkey swelling up in the oven while his family went to eleven o'clock Mass. It was going to be a battle to get there but they had to make the effort. Jim was too old now to embark on such a journey in the snow, He sat by the fire and looked around him. The tree stood in the corner. A few old decorations sat comfortably on the bare branches. The smell of the stuffed turkey roasting in the oven filled the house. A plum pudding steamed on the cooker. "Like old times", Jim spoke aloud. His eyes moved and settled on the photo of Mary on the dresser. "Well, almost" he finished.