|Chris Fairchild (bestgirl) wrote in repose,|
@ 2020-02-05 09:57:00
|Entry tags:||*log, chris fairchild, dante zaragoza|
Log: Dante and Chris at Christmas
Who: Dante and Chris
What: Talking about Dante's shrine to her mother
Where: Dante's place
When: During Dante's Christmas gathering
Warnings/Rating: Language at best
It was a quiet moment in a lull of strangers and questions and attempts at being a proper hostess without ever really having hosted a house party before. She’d done research but research wasn’t experience. Though this wasn’t really a real house party anyway. Not like the ones in the movies or the ones the news made reports about. The day - aside from a couple small bumps in the road - had largely been going well. No one was crying, no one was screaming, no one was freaking out from what Dante could tell, and from the cameras hidden all over the house that she kept tapping her brain into all those conclusions seemed safe enough to feel comfortable in.
That was why when the newest film playing seemed to enrapture the attention of those about Dante would move to the back of the room. It’d be easy to slip around and to stand in front of the small altar that she always kept in the house to her mother. Perhaps it was a testament to how Dante had never gotten over grieving her mother, maybe it was tradition, maybe it was the respect she felt for her mother that pushed her to maintain the altar day after day.
Today, Christmas, was particularly hard. It had never been the same after she’d passed but at least it wasn’t Three Kings Day. The grief settled into Dante’s bones and heart in a way that could never be explained, only felt. The weight in her chest, the lead feelings of feet as she stood there, the longing for another day, another smile, the wish to hear her mother speak once more ‘Mija, come help, the smell of the flowers and planets her mother kept that lingered on the woman’s skin, the feel of warmth that came-
A hand darted up to quickly wipe away any moisture that had begun to threaten at the corners of her eyes.
Holidays were hard.
“Merry Christmas, Mama.”