A Petrichor of Winter's Ghosts

Winter's pleasant petrichor has descended, as the earthy scent of first frost dances with autumn's last sigh. Fall now exhales its final breath and winter’s rush begins to settle. First frost brings not the earthy perfume of rain, but a sharper, crystalline scent - soil preparing for the freeze.

It is both elegy and promise - a surrendering, the chill of winter arriving, the scent of endings braided with beginnings.

Reaching for blanket and a warm fire, I begin my own blend of nostalgia and comfort. I await my ghosts with great anticipation as I snuggle in.

I begin to reminisce on winter's rituals - smoke curling from a distant chimney, mingling with the metallic breath of frost, while the earth beneath sighs like parchment crumbling into silence...Then comes the perfume-like scent of incense rising from the threshold between seasons.

~~~

The tree in the corner flickers faintly, awakening me from my reverie. It awaits the presents, to be piled lovingly beneath its branches.

This year there will be only one - mine, a book I always read, or sometimes its a movie I've watched every single year, when winter's ritual drops by for a bit of humbugging -

A Christmas Carol. Ebenezer and Charles always by my side.

Wrapped by my own two, thankfully, still steady hands, I will uncage the book and read slowly, savoring each word like mulled wine.

The fire hisses. The world forgets me.

And I, gratefully, forget the world.

Sleep tiptoes in, and I, having no control - let's it steal me away.

The Winter ritual I dream of, includes just me and no other living souls. Ghosts though, are quite welcome. Bah Humbug...I just want to curl up on my couch and read my gift book.

I now will have, among other well worn copies, an almost original edition of Charles' novel written long ago about my good friend, Ebenezer Scrooge. Well, just because I never met the guys...doesn't mean that I can't identify with the feeling of just wanting to be left alone in peace and quiet, as grumpy ebenezer visits.

Yes! You heard me just fine. I desire a selfish, all for myself, embracing the me - kind of personal winter ritual this year.

Frankly, I am just too ol...seasoned, yes, a much better word - to be fussing about Christmas lights, joyful and triumphant music and lots of presents under the tree...And Happy relatives effervescing and bubbling over with love, good wishes and enough food to feed a small army.

Overeating - now there is a bone of contention - for the blinking doctors say I cannot eat anything but salads, green leaves, I tell you - as if I am a dinosaur (well maybe I am, just a little) living in the Jurassic era or something.

So I get to just sit and watch everybody engorge on all the soul destroying, sugary, salty meaty delicious concoctions which make the holiday worthwhile...while I sit in my corner chewing all Scrooge-like and angry on dinosaur greens.

Where is the justice, where is the anticipated gift of relaxation and laziness, my well deserved payment for all the years of hard work I put into the hope of enjoying my seasoned years. Where is my wish for indulging, living in dream-like bliss and happiness. Eating cake and imbibing on rum-spiced eggnog like everyone else.

Life can be a Bitc...blessed nuisance...getting in my way. Humbug.

So you can now see, why this Winter Ritual just for one is all I need.

I'm not seeped in bitterness,

I'm just seething with quiet defiance.

No carols, no clatter, no company.

Just me, curled like a comma on my couch,

wrapped in the pause of December’s breath.

The book will slip from my fingers. I am lost and sleep drowned.

It is then that he, promptly at midnight, shall appear.

Scrooge - not as the miser of ye olden days,

but as the memory-keeper of my winter dreams.

He takes my hand,

and we drift through the annals of time

to laughter echoing in kitchens,

to snowball fights and candlelit rooms,

to the scent of cinnamon and the sound of old songs.

He shows me joy I’d tucked away,

happiness - not lost - but just sleeping.

I know that I am dreaming - I smile,

For the book is still open,

the tree still glowing,

and the gift of remembering

is wrapped gently around me.

Lost in sleep - Bah Humbug and the Book of Ghosts show me what was, what will be and what is to come.

The world outside was a flurry of tinsel and noise. Children shrieked in delight, neighbors exchanged cakes and plates of cookies, and somewhere down the street, someone sang loudly, already drunk on eggnog and nostalgia. But inside my warm and cosy flat, the only sound was the soft creak of the couch as I curled into it, perhaps snoring - my cat sneaking away from the noise as I seek warmth.

I see myself making a promise - this year: no parties, no platitudes, no pretending. Just solitude. Just peace.

The tree in the corner was still modest - barely three feet tall, its ornaments few but meaningful. A single present sat beneath it, wrapped in crimson paper and tied with a green ribbon.

I reached for it now, fingers brushing the ribbon loose. Inside was the book I had longed to reread. Not for the cheer, but for the ache. For the ghosts. For the reminder that even the hardest hearts can soften.

I opened the book and began to read, the words wrapping around me like a shawl. Dickens’ prose was familiar, like an old friend who didn’t ask questions. I read until the fire dimmed and my eyes grew heavy. The book slipped from my hands and landed softly on the rug.

Then came the knock.

It echoed somewhere deep - on a door somewhere inside the dream I had fallen into. I opened my eyes and found myself standing in a fog. A figure approached, hunched and muttering.

“Bah Humbug,” he said, tipping his hat. “You summoned me.”

“Scrooge?” I gasped, quite joyful, unafraid, for my ghostly winter friend had visited many times before.

“In the flesh - or what’s left of it,” he replied. “You read the book. That’s the ritual. Now come. There are memories to revisit.”

He took my hand, and suddenly we were flying - not through time, but through feeling. I saw myself as a child, laughing in a leaf-covered yard. I saw the kitchen where my mother sang carols off-key. I saw the quiet years, the lonely ones, and the ones filled with unexpected joy.

Scrooge didn’t speak much. He simply pointed, nodded, and let me feel.

When I awoke, for real this time - the light was out, the room was dark, and the book lay open beside me, magically unwrapped. I smiled - I hadn't changed, I had now finally remembered.

Outside, the world was still noisy. But inside, I had found my own kind of Christmas.

A ritual of one. A gift of the passage of time. And ghosts who knew the way.

My winter ritual is never complete without my dear friend, Scrooge, paying me a visit.

Maybe, just maybe, now...I will visit with the noisy family and friends later. For now, Ebenezer's company is enough.