Like this! Am I having a dream? Is my husband going to now walk through the front door too like he does in my book?
Christmas miracles typically hinge on a magical event, right?
In ours, I imagined Mark walking barefoot through the front door to find his shoes exactly where I had left them for him, like two plates of cookies for Santa. Then he would grab me and kiss me and twirl the girls in the air giving helicopter rides.
After that lovely homecoming scene, we would sit down to a traditional goose dinner. Later, after tucking the girls into bed, he would explain the whole story about how he got amnesia and had no identification on him when the police found him robbed, beaten up, and left for dead in an alley after getting off at the wrong train stop. It had taken thirty long days, but his memory came back and here he was. Home again!
We would talk and laugh into the night, and then he would carry me upstairs to our bedroom, where he would kiss me exactly how he always kissed me and smell exactly how he smelled and smile exactly the way that he always smiled and take me to places no other man could. That’s how I would know it was really him.
And then we would spend another 5,679 nights together, and another and another until we were so old that our children, though they found us burdensome, still brought our beautiful grandchildren to visit us at the nursing home. Until finally, one of us would slip away quietly into the night, followed by the other very shortly after the way that old couples often do. Then people would console the girls and bring them meatball casseroles and say, “At least they had a long life.”