The Last Present

He groaned as he stretched. His back was a tad hunched. His bones rattled with age and tiredness. In his reflection, only an unshaven old man is looking right back at him. His hazel eyes made a disarming impression against his stark white hair. The air was warm, yet he held a tight robe around his body as if he were freezing. He made himself tea in silence and calmly sat at the breakfast nook in the kitchen. It was Christmas. Yet the house was riddled with noises of pipes and aching wood. No laughter; no warm voices whispering their festive deeds. He sat alone. Once his tea was finished, he went to the front door and opened it slightly. Through the crack, he spotted his daily news subscription. Much to his delight, newspapers had now begun to trend once more.  

The era of technology has ended, and the world has had to revert to the ways before it. Yet none of the nostalgia could fill the silence of his home. He tossed his papers on the couch. Dust filled the air as the paper landed on the cushioned fabric. In the corner of his living room was a small tree. A real one. He had always despised having those fake plastic trees. They weren’t the real thing. They simply couldn’t compare. As he approached the tree, he gazed at all the handmaid ornaments. One had been made by his late wife; glitter was all over it. Along its curvature was beautiful cursive. Her name against his. Ornaments made by his late children dotted the rest of the tree. All of them made a complete ornament set. The spheres had drawing depictions of the things they enjoyed. The violin, a football, and a book. He nearly smiled as he gazed at them until he noticed one of his ornaments was missing. He stumbled around the room until he found that it had rolled into a corner. He placed it back onto the tree. He reached for the card that his parents had written long ago telling him how proud they were of the man he had become. He was barely able to prevent the tears forming in his eyes from falling.  

Before he lit his tree, he checked every window to make sure they were all covered. He did not allow sunlight to enter his home. Once the tree was lit and emulated a soft warm glow, he just sat there. Staring. After a while, he got up and headed for the stairs that led down to the basement. He pulled out a single wrapped gift, caked in dust, with his name on it. Who was it from? Everyone. His wife and children all signed it. Since the occurrence of the last Christmas, he hadn’t dare opened it. The gift brought pain to his heart, so he locked it in his basement and refused to acknowledge its existence. But today, today he was going to honor the hard work his family had done to get him such a gift. He swiped his shaking hands gently across the box, wiping off the dust. He carefully took it up the stairs, through the kitchen, and into the living room. With great difficulty, he bent over to carefully place it under the tree. He looked around his living room. It looked aged, but the exact way in which the last Christmas occurred. Toys still littered his loveseat. His wife’s shoes were nestled by the front door. His son’s homework was spread out on the coffee table. He was learning Algebra.  

It was as if any moment his children would run down from the second floor and into the living room racing to open their presents. His wife would have been prepping the cameras to get a good view of their cheerful faces. Nothing. No one is there. Ghosts of past and present haunt him. For when he looks into his own eyes, he hardly felt alive. He dragged his feet to the kitchen to make his holiday meal. Canned corned beef hash with some bread and butter. There wasn’t much food these days. Once he had finished eating, and dumped his dishes in the sink, walked up to his stocking. He noticed an item creating a subtle familiar shape at the bottom. He crammed his hand in and slowly pulled the object out. A pack of cigarettes and his favorite brand too. This must have been from his wife who knew a good pack of smokes would put him in a jolly mood. He pulled one out and lit a match. The smoke of the cigarette clouded the air and took over the stale dusted smell that reaped through the house. He sat on the couch smoking as he looked around. He nearly expected his large mother to come bursting in to lecture him over how filthy the house was. She was a large beautiful woman. Stern and tough. He imagined her racing about the house cleaning and scrubbing while lecturing him about cleanliness. His wife would sigh heavily as she rolled her eyes and hid from them all. She was never good at gatherings or any social events. He loved that about her.  

Whenever there was racket running throughout the house, she would seek out the silence of an unoccupied room. The house now of course was silent everywhere. But nothing comforting. Nothing at all. The silence now whispered in his ears. The lost voices of his past haunting him. At night sometimes the silence would break and he could swear, absolutely swear, that his children were giggling in their rooms. Yet when he went to check, as expected, nothing. Their rooms were completely frozen in time, the same as they were on that fateful day. Sometimes it felt like some sort of prank. One where his children would be hiding, and at any moment they would pop out and yell that they had been there this whole time. They didn't. They’re gone. There is nothing he can do about it. He slowly picked up his gift from underneath the tree. He was no longer able to hold it in. First a hiccup, then a single tear. The dam had broken. He sat on the couch clutching his present with large tears falling from his eyes. His shoulders moved up and down as he heaved to breathe from being choked by his own tears.  

Once he had come to a stop, he carefully unwrapped his gift. Saving and setting the scraps aside for keeping. When he opened the box, there laid a quilted blanket. Each square was a piece of their own fabric they had scrapped together to make it. He clutched the blanket and brought it to his nose. The tears came back, he could smell his family. His wife’s rosy perfume, the scent of his children. He imagined them all sitting in their room each sewing their little squares, excitedly planning and hiding it from him just for the perfect moment. It was a perfect gift. He had always complained about being cold. All he could do was hold his blanket tightly to his face and chest as he cried. It felt like hours before he gathered himself and wrapped himself with his “new” gift. He crept toward one of the windows toward the front house. The drapes were heavy with dust. 

Shakily he peaked through the blinds. Sure, enough people were moaning and groaning. Some were lying on the ground heaving from starvation and thirst. Illness seemed to spread through his country. Yet when he looked, up a stark contrast consumed the view. For there was a rather large and lit tower, decorated with gold trims, and its windows winking at him as if what lies before him was only a hallucination.  

The wrapping paper for his gift sat on the worn-down couch.  

It read. 

“To: Papa”