Christmas is billed as the season of togetherness, a jolly jamboree of lights, laughter, and oversized sweaters with reindeer that look slightly possessed.

But for some - especially the elderly - it’s not so much a ‘Silent Night’ as a deafeningly quiet one.

Christmas has a way of highlighting absences. For older people, it may be the spouse whose laughter once lit up the room, now just a memory in the quiet hours. It’s the children who’ve grown and moved away, busy with their own families and lives.

Yet, their resilience is striking. They don’t complain. They’ll tell you they’re fine, that they don’t need anything, that they’re just happy knowing you’re busy and well. But underneath those words are a simple wish: to feel remembered, to be included.

It doesn’t take much to make their Christmas brighter - a phone call, a visit, an invitation for a cup of tea. The smallest gestures can fill a room with warmth and a heart with gratitude.

So, this Christmas, don’t just sing about goodwill toward men, practice it. Call your grandparents. Stop by to see the old man who always waves from his porch. Because one day, when you’re the old one, you’ll wish someone would do the same for you.

Through My Window

Steam and delicious smells seep steadily through the crack of the kitchen door,

Which has been pulled to, for the purpose of keeping out those career criminals.

Food thieves are rife in this house; sausage-stealers, parsnip-pinchers and

Roastie-robbers to name a few. The pigs-in-blankets are now kept under lock and key,

After last year when the bowl arrived at the table, and there were only three.

Wrapping paper that has been hastily ripped off by eager little hands, covers the carpet,

Along with toys that have been haphazardly half-built, as Grandad insists that the

Instructions are not necessary. A trait which seems hereditary, as Dad struggles

With setting up the new goalposts and net in the garden. He knows he is bested,

So sends his son as emissary to fetch him a glass of Bucks Fizz, and root through the bin

To find the manual he chucked out earlier, as his patience is wearing very thin.

The table is set, appetites have been whet; Mum calls everyone to come together, and feast.

Plates are passed around, drinks are downed and the sound of laughter fills the house.

Yet I hear nothing, except the hum of my hearing aids. I am looking at my next-door neighbours.

I watch them wistfully through my window, year after year, wishing my own family were still here,

But I am alone now; my love has passed on, any joy or joviality Christmas used to bring, is gone.

I hope that one day, they might invite me over, and I will sit on their sofa and exchange stories,

Share their meal, play their games. It would mean the world to me, just to know their names.