"You'll be doin' alright with your Christmas of white..."

Imogene moves through the crowd, her small figure elbowing here and there while doing her best not to get stepped on. She never liked shopping or crowds, but the sway of the bright white lights on the tall Christmas tree and the crooning voice of Elvis drew her closer. They remind her of home, one of many things that make her homesick.

Even though there are enough rainy and cloudy days in Oregon , it rarely snows. Imogene was from a much different world, born in a tiny town in Vermont. Her earliest memories were of the smell of cookies in the oven, cookies often full of chocolate chips and M&M's and other goodies. If she closes her eyes, she can smell them. Even as a small child glued to the large front window, watching the snow fall down, Imogene could smell that her mother had a habit of leaving the treats in the oven just a minute too long.

Timing is everything, but Imogene never minds the small imperfections. Her mother's cookies were the greatest treats in the world. The radio would be on as the cookies puffed up happily, her mother's cheerful voice humming along.

"....but I'll have a Blue, Blue Christmas."

Imogene did not know what was so bad about blue for Christmas. In fact, it was her favourite colour. The last time Imogene had seen her mother, she wore a long blue velvet dress that complimented her dark auburn hair. She remembers thinking her mother looked liked a Christmas mermaid.

Time passed, enough time for Imogene to know mermaids do not celebrate Christmas. Imogene had become a charming girl, her chestnut hair falling midway between her chin and shoulders, and curling at the ends. She is now an immaculately dressed nine-year-old girl , her body and mind starting the slow but inevitable transformation from a child to a young woman.

She hops her way through the crowd of adults and children running disobediently in all directions. In contrast, Imogene is like a perfectly behaved doll, dressed in winter white and gold. She hadn't yet outgrown Mary Janes, pristine in their snow-coloured hue but slightly scuffed around the edges, or the pride in her beret-style hat. Tres chic.

The young woman in her knows she looks like a little girl, but the child in her wants to twirl and ask if she is pretty. Her mother is a beautiful, sophisticated lady and Imogene hopes when she grows up, she'll look exactly the same. Imogene's mind whirls quickly, seeing the line of children waiting with their parents to see Santa.

Her attention, however, isn't on Santa or the colourful throng of people that moved into her without apology, This annoys the girl. It is on the man singing the song, momentarily reminded of her father. Imogene stares at the ground in bitter disappointment when she realises it's only a handsome man singing her favourite holiday song.

Imogene jumps and almost lets out a small scream when a hand clasps her shoulder. Turning around, she sees a tall and almost severe-looking woman with white hair. She is fiercely lovely in her old age. Imogene knows she's in trouble for wandering. "Grandma Cecilia!"

Imogene's voice is small.  "I..I'm sorry. I heard the song, and it reminded me of home. My imagination..started going all fuzzy again. I started thinking my father was here. Is my mother coming this year?" She stares at the blue-grey dress her grandmother wears, hopelessly out of fashion but a reminder of the old woman's younger days.

It is blue, but covered in white snowflakes. White is the colour of the car they all rode in that night, comfortable like the snow and the exterior of the home she loved so dearly.

Blue is the colour of the water that lurked underneath the facade of the picturesque winter wonderland, everything white and smelling like cocoa and candy canes. 

The young girl doesn't see the tears in the corner of her grandmother's eyes. "Someday, dear. There will be a someday when your mother arrives and holds you in her arms, but right now--she does not remember either of us. It is not her fault. When she arrives. you will be old enough to understand and old enough to forgive. Imogene, do not wish the time away."

Imogene is startled as her grandmother, one who rarely shows warmth, pulls her into a blue-and-white snowflake hug.

"I am already that, Grandma Cecilia. I understand and forgive. I am grown-up!" She pauses, and tries her best to think of an example.

"If that man had really been my father, I'd have hugged him and told him it was okay. He must miss us too. "

The song finishes, and Imogene is confused by her grandmother's words. They are hopeful but full of pain and tears. Grandma Cecilia doesn't cry.

Perhaps it is the song, or the piles of pristine and white snow that are pretty to look at, but are not. Her grandmother is homesick, probably, because Imogene is too.

"I wish we could have stayed at home. I didn't want to move, Grandma Cecilia. I had friends and a life and people loved me, and the snow was so pretty."

Imogene is content inside her grandmother's wrinkled, warm hug. She doesn't see how time and loss have put lines on the old woman's face, or notice the small ways in which her hands shake.

"We came here for you, Imogene. We had to. There are too many memories and it is best to start fresh.. You deserve another life, Imogene. You'll be happy again. You'll have friends and be loved. Living in the shadow of loss and memory, people wither. Do you understand that?"

Imogene doesn't, but she nods her head. It seems like Grandma Cecilia wants her to understand.

"....but I'll have a Blue, Blue Christmas."

Blue is the colour of the night sky just before it fades to black. It is the colour of water that is cold, very cold, after it  covers the lips of those who linger underneath for too long. Even mermaids, it turns out, can change from ivory to blue.

Beneath every bit of white is blue. The song knows that, and maybe it's why it's the only Christmas song Imogene remembers very well. The others feel like a blur.

"Imogene? Imogene, stay with me." She hears the sharp words of Grandma Cecilia, and she pulls out of her thoughts, looking with wide eyes. "You are tired and cold. Let's go home. There will be other days for wandering and enjoying Christmas.."

Imogene nods. Now that the song is over, she loses interest, but she still twirls and skips a little as they walk back towards the familiar iron gates. Gated complexes, Grandma Cecilia calls their new home. They're very popular, apparently.

She runs toward the house as she sees the gift at their door. "Grandma! Look, we had someone visit us when we were away. How did they know blue and white are my favourite?" A poinsettia, leaves coloured blue and white and tied with a gold ribbon, sat on either side. Imogene twirls excitedly.

Grandma Cecilia laughs. "Go inside now, Imogene. Get warm before you catch cold!" 

The old woman stands outside long enough to make sure Imogene never sees the retreating figure of the man who'd left the flowers. It is the shadow of a long absent-father, one who made sure his daughter's favourite song played on repeat.

He'd only ever wanted to hurt himself. That's what he told the people. Even as he spoke, he reeked of booze and desperation. Of course they felt sorry for him, though Cecilia knew better. She'd watched him hurt her daughter too many times, but no one asked her opinion.

He was a drunk, but he was a family man. That's why they were in the car that Christmas Eve, Cecilia holding Imogene as the couple in the front fought bitterly.

Imogene's mother was the stronger one, still fighting a battle she'd inevitably lose. The damage from the cold and the time it took help to arrive was irreversible.

The man is old now, mired in self-pity and Jack Daniels. Cecilia knows he'll be coming to stay soon enough. It won't be with them.

Imogene knows what her father is. She never asks when her father will be coming. The girl only ever asks for her mother.

There is no answer that doesn't break Cecilia's heart.

She bends over, hands shaking as she moves a few errant leaves from the front stoop. The blue and white flowers did look pretty.

Her fingers run over Imogene's welcome mat, almost admiringly. Cecilia secretly liked Imogene's taste, even if she said the gold and flowers were ostentatious. The style suits the vivacious young woman.

She runs her fingers over the ornate lettering, before heading inside to make cocoa.

Imogene Julia Cooper, beloved daughter and child of God.
May 13, 1961- December 24, 1970.

A/N: The word count on this is 1494. All the images falsely inflate the count, though I don't know why. This is my first trial run for The Great Wattpad Write-Off, a challenging upcoming short story competition. The theme was to write a story about Christmas, 1500 words or less. It is also the first piece in my new book, "Winter's Nocturne", which will include short fiction from this competition, and other pieces created for anthologies and such. Tell me what you think! <3