A Cornish Christmas by Lily Graham

undressed. I admired my husband from the tub and, as the flickering light played over his silken hair and across his lean muscles, all thoughts of Mum and Catherine’s dad evaporated.
    â€˜You’re looking rather fit, Mr Everton,’ I remarked, eyeing his taut stomach appreciatively.
    He smiled, teeth startlingly white and even. ‘And you thought gardening was for the elderly.’
    I laughed as he slid in behind me and leaned against him. ‘Did I?’
    He wrapped his arms around me, moving aside my long, wet hair. ‘No, not really.’ I turned and kissed him. ‘See now, that’s the trouble with us having a bath together... we never actually bathe...’
    He grinned. ‘And that’s a problem?’
    It wasn’t, not really.
----
    I woke at quarter to three, a feeling of excitement expanding in my chest. With a hammering heart, I tiptoed out of bed to the studio.
    I had a theory.
    Born in the seconds before sleep opened its arms to claim me, but I wouldn’t know until tonight if it were true. I crept along the passage and opened the door, hugging my dressing gown to me. The room was still and quiet, the crash of the waves outside oddly hushed.
    I took a seat at the writing desk and waited. Hoping what I suspected, and wouldn’t dare say aloud, was true... If magic existed at all, it would happen in the witching hour, well after midnight – at three o’ clock, to be precise.
    At first, when I saw the flicker of moonlight, I thought that perhaps I’d been wrong. For at first no new apparition, no new dream-spun gift unfolded. Then, before my eyes, a silvery golden thread appeared and began to spin itself into a minute old-fashioned birdcage. Its little moon-spun door opened and a tiny red and gold stardust thrush appeared, fluttering its wings, taking small little hops across the desk. I held out my hand, heart in my throat, as it hopped onto my outstretched palm, softer than the softest kiss.
    â€˜How are you doing this?’ I breathed, eyes shimmering with unshed tears, as the little bird sprang from my hand and fluttered across the studio, out the open window.
    As I stared at the desk, the birdcage disappeared, and another glimmer caught my eye. I inhaled sharply.
    The creamy postcard, addressed to me, began to shimmer with an otherworldly light, words etched in silvered moonshine appeared and I watched in awe as letter-by-letter, one by one, three perfect words emerged:
    I love you
    My eyes spilled over as I stared at the shimmering words dancing before me.
    â€˜Mum,’ I whispered. Not a question, but a statement of impossible, inexplicable fact. I stared at the card scarcely daring to breathe, hoping against hope that, somehow, she could hear. Then, slowly, the words disappeared and new ones took their place, each letter followed by an answering hammer from my heart.
    Hello Darling
    I gasped, tears flowing freely. Then I closed my eyes for a second, barely able to contain what I felt. My shoulders shook with happy sobs, hands clenched in excitement. I stuttered, ‘How... how are you doing this? Where are you?’
    I swallowed, waiting for her to answer, in fearful desperation that she wouldn’t. But she did.
    There is no language for it
    I sucked in air in surprise; waiting, wondering... then more words appeared, more obtuse than the first.
    As far as a whisper, as close as space
    â€˜Are you in heaven?’ I whispered to the moonlit room.
    Nothing happened and I began to fear, heart thrashing in my chest, nothing ever would.
    Then slowly... so slowly, she answered. As before, the silvered words disappeared and new ones formed.
    We do not use words for it, but if words were used, heaven may be one, if what one could say about the sun was that it was round
    The fear that I’d had for years... that there was nothing after we left, was finally taken away.
    â€˜But if you’re there... then how, how are we doing this?’
    I