The Christmas lights sparkle. A family snuggle up on the porch watching the television. The sun is setting; its warmth lingering in the air. A couple walk by, laughing, and I bring myself to smile as their dog licks hello to mine. Except this dog isn’t mine. She’s my Christmas dog: an upbeat one-year-old cavoodle who spookily resembles the dog I glued onto my vision board last year. As we stroll around the block, the sky is darkening now, a red stain at the bottom of it to remind us that a day has ended and another should soon follow.

What is mine?

That word is so definite. So permanent. We cross paths with a dark house, empty driveway, only a wreath hanging on the door to show some indication of Christmas spirit. And suddenly, as the dog is taking a poo on their lawn, I’m crying. It’ll Be Lonely This Christmas playing through my headphones doesn’t help. It’s all timed too perfectly. I hate it and I love it. My body breaks like a Christmas cracker and the tears are flooding down my cheeks while the dog looks up confused and guilty as I collect their deposits. It’s like a stiff tap inside of me has been loosened, but the water’s too powerful to stop.

              She’s jumping up onto my lap, eager to play, eager to make everything okay. A deep breath to compose myself before we start taking more steps. Wary that passer byers may approach if I don’t get my shit together, never mind the dog’s. The moon is a half crescent tonight; but it’s blurred as if I’m observing it through the wrong prescription. Wiping the tears away doesn’t change its fuzziness amidst the clouds. Watching us as we walk beneath its gaze.

              I used to beg mum to let me put the decorations up as soon as the 1^st of December hit. She’d always say wait till the 11^th. That’s when most people put their tree up apparently. That’s when people would do their Christmas shopping and something magical floated in the air. I’d take over the sitting room; the Christmas music channel blasting from the television sufficed as a ‘do not disturb’ sign. I’d always leave the detangling of the lights to mum; the part that nobody wanted to do. My Christmas spirit wasn’t patient enough to manage that. Sometimes my brother Rohan would barge into the room, laughing attempting to put the star on top of the tree before I was finished and I’d smack it out of his hand in a temper. There was only one tree decorator in the house. It was the same person who wrapped presents weeks in advance. Who woke up at 4am on Christmas morning while the rest of the family slept in. The same person who munched on a selection box while opening presents to a film playing on the television. Who sent Christmas cards to a long list of friends and family, excited to see their reaction. The same person who would make hot chocolate all year round, boasting that it was the best, dipping cookies into the drink. The same person who took pictures on her digital camera of every tiny detail, soaking in all the beauty of Christmas.

              The same person who is walking a dog around a neighborhood in Perth, Australia, 14,949 km away from her home in rural Ireland. And a lifetime away from those memories. But they are mine. Even if everything has changed, those memories are mine. Then why does my body repulse at the thought of them? Rejecting the idea that I was once that person, struggling to find space to store them in my body. The idea that I was once so excited and happy at this time of year.

Now other memories are more prominent: My brother and mother crying together after the diagnosis. Sleeping in the hospital waiting room. Waiting. Sitting in the hospital church with my brother wondering what this is all about. Praying. Hoping. Laughing watching Derry Girls in his hospital bed, sharing headphones and donuts. Him smiling through it all.

His coffin being lowered into the ground.

What is mine?

              I look up to the sky, hoping. Wishing. Praying. Waiting. Unsure if this pain will ever subside. Unsure if this void will ever be filled. Unsure if I’ll ever feel excited to decorate a tree again.

     And maybe that’s okay.

I snuggle up on the couch days before Christmas with a dog who isn’t mine forever, but they are mine for now. I open up the laptop. Book a flight to Thailand. A new place with new people; no memories and nothing that is mine.

Then I write these words. I know that they are mine.

Now, forever, always.