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By Margaret Smyth
I'm standing in my kitchen on this beautiful December morning, the sun streaming in the patio doors as I set about my task. Hard to believe really that it's that time of year again. Another year seems to have come around so quickly.
I cut my bubble-wrap into neat pieces and wrap each item carefully, knowing and understanding the excitement and anticipation of my daughter on the other side of the world when she receives her Christmas gift box from home. It adds to her enjoyment, I know, to be able to unwrap things one by one.
All her favourites are lined up on the kitchen table. The box of Barry's teabags. The six-pack of Tayto crisps. Lily O'Brien's chocolates, large packets of Mikado, Fig Rolls and Ginger Nut biscuits.
Not forgetting to include of course the little cards made especially for her by her nephew and nieces, lots of glitter and sparkle and big bold writing proclaiming their love for their Auntie Siobhan who lives in Australia, and telling her how much they miss her.
I can feel the tears welling up as I read their lovely sentiments and share their feeling of loss.
I carefully wrap in golden tissue paper the bracelet it took me ages to choose. I hope she likes it. Some boxed sets of DVDs she had requested - Love/Hate and Mrs. Brown's Boys - go in next.
Then the silver photo frame with a picture of us all, her two brothers, sister and her Dad and I that was taken the last time she was home. A couple of years ago now, it was the last time we were all together as a family. Happy times. I slip in another photo separately, of her cousin's wedding during the year that she was unable to make it home for.
Here we are again. Another Christmas without our youngest daughter. It doesn't get any easier. A phone call on Christmas Day to a remote part of Queensland is just not the same. Even Skype doesn't come close.
Do our Government leaders know the pain and heartache of not having their children with them at Christmas I wonder? Do they understand the deep sense of loss? Do they care? There are thousands of Irish mothers doing exactly when I'm doing now - getting the Christmas parcel ready to send. The luckier ones will be at the airport to meet their children as they arrive back to spend the Christmas break at home with them.
My daughter is 27, the youngest of four and making a good life for herself in Australia but when she phones or Skypes I can tell when she is homesick. My overwhelming urge to hug her, hold her close, is denied.
I think back to the last time she was home. The busy house with friends calling, laughter and music. Very loud music. Borrowing the car. Clonakilty sausages, a real favourite of hers, sizzling in the pan. Shopping together. Then she was gone again. I went into her room one day after she left. It was so empty. Only days before the carpet could not be seen for clothes, towels, hair products and make-up. Looking around then at the perfectly made bed, with everything returned to its rightful place, I'd have given anything to have the clutter back, if only I could have her with us a few more days.
I continue wrapping and filling the box. Put in some glitzy baubles for her Christmas tree. Yes, she assures me, she does put up a tree. A squeaky toy goes in next for her little dog Disco.
I put to one side the scarf, hat and gloves I bought for her after realising the 35 degree heat at this time of year where she lives makes them surplus to requirements.
The last items to go in are cards from her Dad and I, her brothers and sister, exclaiming 'Happy Christmas from Across the Miles' and 'Happy Christmas to our Wonderful Daughter'.
The tears that have been welling up as I've packed finally spill over, smudging her name and address that I've written in felt-tipped pen. I'll have to do it over.
Happy Christmas darling.
Love from home.
Xx
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