Page 27 of Christmas Bubble

I spent all morning chopping wood because it was the only activity I could do to expend the most energy. It wasn’t until my back was killing me and my stomach demanded food that I stopped.

All fucking morning, I couldn’t get the image of Bubble dancing from my head, and that was after a restless night where he seemed to be the main character in all my dreams.

And then, he turns up again to check on the non-fire I caused by leaving the toaster unattended for five minutes.

I get dressed and throw some shit between two slices of bread. I need to learn how to cook if I want to have more than sandwiches for lunch and frozen meals for dinner.

My phone rings and I answer without looking to see who’s calling. “What?”

“Riley John Dempsey, is that how you answer a call from anyone, let alone your mother?”

Shit.

“I’m sorry, Mom. I wasn’t thinking. Just having a bad day. That’s all. How’s your vacation?”

“It’s wonderful. We’re just calling because we saw the news about the weather up where you are and we’re worried. It looks like there’s a bad storm coming your way.”

With all the thoughts of Bubble and working on the house, I haven’t turned the TV on in days.

“I’ll have a look at the news later. Don’t worry. I have enough food and firewood to keep warm.”

She relays the message to my father.

“As long as you’re okay. We do worry about you, you know?”

I sigh. “Mom, I’m not a child. I can look after myself.”

“I know, I know, but you’ve never really lived on your own. It’s a big change.”

“It’s a change I needed, and I’ll get used to it.” Not to mention I’m forty-freaking-six years old.

Christ.

“Anyway, how are your projects going?” Mom asks.

“Well, I thank Dad for everything he’s taught me about woodwork because my kitchen is starting to look as good as new.” I can’t hide my pride as I tell them about my progress with the kitchen and what I’m going to work on next.

“Just remember to also rest a little, honey. It’s Christmas, after all.”

Her mention of Christmas reminds me of the cabin next door with all the decorations. Or rather, the person staying in it.

“Mom, can I ask you a question?”

“Of course, dear.”

“Do you remember my friend, Ben?”

She pauses. “Yes,” she says, and I can hear the sadness in her voice.

“What do you remember about him?”

“He was one of those rare people with a special soul. Such a kindhearted boy, always cheerful and wouldn’t hurt a fly.”

I remember Ben rescuing a baby bird that fell from a nest and spending the afternoon trying to climb a tree to put the bird back with its family.

“For a while, I thought…” Mom laughs.

“Thought what?”